Cleo Fellers Kocol
 

 
Eight-thirty AM I rush in, the telephone ringing. "Third Street Dry Cleaners and Laundry," I answer, registering the waiting room's tired paper geraniums and lone wicker chair.  Behind my counter a fog-bank of steam, industrial detergent and cleaning fluid clogs air thick with heat.  I tackle piles of soiled clothing.  Like morning sickness their odor brings a sour taste.  No time for it.  I swallow, sort, staple, stamp until one when my half-hour lunch break breaks the day.  Sun glares on macadam.  Steam irons hiss like heat waves breaking on a dry shore.  A wino shuffles into the shade, leans against the building and upends a bottle.  I finish my banana, comb my hair, put on fresh lipstick, and tilt the fans my way.  The phone rings, and I mutter, "Third Street Cleaners."  The spotter, swearing a black fog of words, broadcasts the scent of jalapeno peppers and raw onion.  "Dry Cleaners," I gag into the phone. Scraps of paper are gathering in the entrance way. Time drags the afternoon away.  "Cleaners," I slur into the telephone and spray myself with cologne.  Briefly a tropical bouquet flowers the interior of the Third Street Laundry and Dry Cleaners.