The laundromat on Magdalene Street stayed open twenty-four hours, not because anyone needed to wash clothes at three in the morning but because the owner, a Vietnamese woman named Linh, believed that fluorescent lights burning through the night kept ghosts away. John discovered this at two-forty-seven AM when insomnia drove him to gather his laundry and walk the six blocks through Dublin's empty streets, carrying his dirty clothes like evidence of having lived through another week.
Inside, a man sat in front of the bulletin board where people pinned lost cat flyers and business cards for services nobody needed. He was reading aloud from what looked like a court document, his voice carrying over the rhythmic churning of the only active washing machine.
"Petitioner alleges that respondent has systematically alienated the minor children through a pattern of behavior that includes but is not limited to," the man read, his voice flat, automated, like he'd read this so many times the words had lost their violence, "telling the children that petitioner abandoned them, refusing to allow phone contact during respondent's custodial time, scheduling extracurricular activities during petitioner's parenting time without consultation, making derogatory statements about petitioner in the children's presence, interrogating the children about petitioner's living situation, relationships, and financial status, requiring the children to call respondent's new partner 'Dad' while referring to petitioner by first name only, claiming that petitioner's mental health treatment makes them dangerous, filing false reports with Child Protective Services alleging neglect, coaching the children to report discomfort during petitioner's custodial time, rewarding the children with gifts and privileges when they refuse visitation, threatening to withdraw financial support for college if the children maintain relationship with petitioner, destroying photographs of petitioner in the family home, blocking petitioner's number on children's phones, requiring children to spy on petitioner and report back, suggesting that petitioner's neighborhood is unsafe despite no evidence, claiming that petitioner's new partner is a threat to the children's wellbeing without basis, scheduling medical appointments during petitioner's time and refusing to provide information, telling extended family members that petitioner is unstable, creating scenes at school pickup to embarrass petitioner in front of other parents, filing repeated motions for emergency custody based on fabricated concerns, refusing to provide children's social security numbers for tax purposes as outlined in decree, claiming children are sick when they are not to prevent visitation, telling children that petitioner doesn't really love them, only wants to hurt respondent, suggesting that choosing to spend time with petitioner is betraying respondent, making children feel guilty for enjoying time with petitioner, interrogating children after visits about what they ate, where they went, who they saw, telling children that petitioner is trying to replace them with new partner's children, claiming that petitioner's home is dirty, dangerous, inappropriate, refusing to send children's belongings for overnight visits, requiring children to keep secrets from petitioner, telling children that the divorce was entirely petitioner's fault, that petitioner chose to leave them, that petitioner has always been selfish, that petitioner never wanted children, that petitioner is mentally ill, dangerous, unfit—"
He stopped, folded the document carefully, placed it back in a manila folder that had been handled so many times the edges were soft as fabric, paced around the machines and started reading aloud again.
John loaded quarters and the machine churned steadily, rhythmically, the sound filling the space. Somewhere in the back, a dryer buzzed, its cycle complete, and the pirate emerged to claim the clothes. He folded patiently and silently, then hobbled towards John with stacks under each arm.
"Grimbletide," John greeted him, once he was close enough.
The name emerged from his mouth like something dredged from deep water. The pirate's left eye, the one opposite the patch, held the peculiar fixity of someone who has stubbornly decided what is worth seeing.
The pirate called him by his full name, stating simply, "John Mazuma."
And then kicked the door open with his peg leg and was gone into the night.
The man with the legalease-laden document sat down and continued to read, his voice mechanical, the words washing over John, wearing everything down.