Mark Graham says he has never owned a washing machine and doesn't need one.
For years, Graham has been taking part in one of the world's oldest and most egalitarian traditions: Loading up dirty socks and underwear and heading for the laundry.
It's 7 a.m. The big, sliding glass doors of the Fourth Street Coin Laundry have been opened for business. The laundry, like the morning, is quiet and still. There is a telephone that rarely rings and several obscure signs, including one that says "Sorry" in really big letters, followed by "Not responsible for lost or stolen articles."
What Graham likes the best, he says, is that for a couple of quarters, he can share choices in detergents—Tide with or without bleach—or ribbed Hanes or Calvin Klein tank tops, with strangers from numerous cultures, colors and economic backgrounds.
"This is a pretty cool joint," Graham said.
According to the Coin Laundry Association, there are 35,000 coin laundries in the United States, generating almost $5 billion in gross revenue a year. In St. Petersburg, there are 975. Clean clothes, like food and shelter, are considered necessities of life—and coin laundries offer a basic health service for millions of Americans.
There has been a coin laundry in almost every neighborhood across St. Petersburg and the country since the industry's inception 60 years ago. And in a transient city like St. Petersburg where students, snow birds, tourists and residents share the common need to wear clean clothes, this industry will not go away any time soon.
Graham, thinks of the Laundromat as a rite of passage. He remembers pushing a shopping cart several blocks with his mother under the hot, summer sun when he was younger. He has seen the coin laundry change with each ended cycle.
It's 10:37. A woman walks in with a white, plastic basket full of clothes. She loads them into the washing machine, pours the blue, liquid detergent over the top of the washer, sets the cycle and heads out the door.
Graham says he says he has the option of going to another laundry place, one with central air conditioning closer to his house, but prefers the one on Fourth Street, where two fans keep conversations cool, for the most part, on hot, summer afternoons.
It's 11:36 p.m. The spinning of foamy clothes in the washer is halted. The woman pulls her still wet clothes from the washing machine and takes them to the dryer. She sets the timer and heads out the sliding glass doors.
Graham looks around, and then sticks his hand inside the washer.
"A lot of people leave their change," he said. "If there's a dollar, I know it's gonna be a good day."
He then pulls his dirty clothes out of a white draw-string bag he brought them in and places the pieces carefully in the washer. He doesn't know why, but number 12 is his favorite. He says it could be because from this washer, the first one from the main entrance, he can see what's going on in the parking lot and in the laundry. It's not his job, but looking out for people in the laundry is what he enjoys doing.
"There's a lot of kids in this area, especially now in the summer," he said. "They have nothing to do, so I don't want them to get in any trouble."
It's 1:42 p.m. A young woman, in her mid-20s, enters the laundry schlepping a leather suitcase and three duffle bags: A gray one, a blue one and a green one. She also brings her three young children. Her oldest daughter is 10 years old and she is rolling her two-year-old brother in the stroller. He is holding a tanned, undressed doll his older sister once played with. The boy drops it. His mother doesn't notice, she is too busy trying to get the washer to work. His sister too is unaware the doll is on the floor, she is taken counting quarters for the next cycle. He extends his arm as far as he can and rescues the doll from the lint-covered floor.
The coin laundry is open Monday through Saturday from 7 a.m. to 10 p.m., and Sundays from 8 a.m. to 10 p.m. But regulars, like Graham, advise people to go in the afternoon.
"All the snappy people come after work," referring to customers who bring their dirty threads after 5 p.m.
It's 1:57 p.m. The mother still can't get the washer started. She asks the washer savvy lady standing two washers down from her for some help. The lady nods and walks towards numbers 15, 16 and 17. Minutes later, the tug-of-war with the washer is over.
"Downy brings everyone together," he said.
It's 2:12. The mother, who has been hearing "hungry, hungry, hungry" from her two-year-old, gives in. While the clothes are rinsing, she walks them across the street for two Happy Meal Cheeseburgers. She doesn't have a bag.
Graham does laundry on Fridays, sometimes Saturdays. It's when he knows people are out to dinner or drinking on their porches, and not occupying their time trying to take his pants—from the washing machine—he says.
One time, he remembers going to the food store next to the coin laundry and when he was walking out, a man was running off onto 4th Street with Graham's pants in hand.
"I couldn't believe it," he said. "I turn around for a moment and some dude takes off with my pants."
It's 2:24. The washer savvy lady, who was skimming through the April issue of Redbook, looks around, walks toward washer 16, opens the door, takes a handful of soaked clothes and shoves them in her shirt.
"This is a normal day here," Graham said.
Graham says despite the "dodgy" people who frequent the coin laundry, he never wants to own his own washing machine. He says he enjoys the uncertainty included in a day at the Fourth Street Coin Laundry.