So there I was… just a girl standing in front of a washing machine, asking it to please not eat another one of her socks.
Okay — so I know laundry isn’t exactly the NYC glamour people move here for. No Sex-and-the-City fabulous. No Gossip Girl drama. Just me, alone, in a Brooklyn laundromat, wearing my “everything-I-own-is-dirty” leggings and a scrunchie I panic-bought at a CVS somewhere near Prospect Heights.
And then… the jazz started.
🌃 The Night It All Got Weirdly Magical
Now, this laundromat — it’s not one of those cute little ones with succulents and an exposed brick wall, okay? It’s fluorescent-lit, semi-questionable, smells like warm quarters and dryer sheets. There's an elderly tabby cat that may or may not work there.
So I’m waiting on a rinse cycle and texting Monica to remind her our group chat needs boundaries (seriously — I didn’t need the espresso machine saga in hour-by-hour updates), when suddenly… I hear a saxophone.
Like, a real live saxophone.
At first, I thought someone was just playing Coltrane via Bluetooth — but no. This sound was echoing, live, and had that kind of messy brilliance that tells you someone’s making it up right now, right here, over by the dryers.
Which is when I noticed a man literally pulling back a folding table, revealing a tiny door in the wall. I SWEAR. I half-expected a rabbit in a waistcoat to hop out.
He looked at me. I looked at him. And then I blurted, “Um. Excuse me — is that a real saxophone? Or am I having one of those dehydration dreams again?”
He just smiled and said:
"You coming in or not?"
Okay, listen. I know “don’t follow strangers into tiny hidden rooms in laundromats” is the first rule of staying alive in New York, but this man was wearing a velvet blazer and smelled like bergamot and jazz records. I mean, come on.
🎷 Inside the Spin Cycle Speakeasy
I ducked through the door and: yes. A jazz speakeasy. In a freakin’ laundromat.
A glowy little room with string lights and mismatched chairs and a sign that said “No Dryers Past This Point.” There was a small trio — sax, upright bass, snare drum — and about twenty people sipping wine from ceramic mugs (honestly chic) and looking like they all shared at least one MFA or one devastating heartbreak with a jazz musician.
I grabbed a seat on a (probably borrowed) ottoman and just… let myself be.
No phone. No schedule. Just me and the music and the faint smell of fabric softener.
By the second set, the drummer was using an empty Tide box as a snare. A French woman passed me a glass of what I think was kombucha-but-make-it-boozy. Someone named Theo handed me a tambo and said, “You look like good rhythm energy.”
I mean — when in Brooklyn, right?
💡 Things I Learned Between the Spin Cycles
So, after a night of accidental jazz and possibly trespassing, here’s what I took away:
- New York will always find weird little ways to surprise you — especially when you're not looking.
- You don’t always have to be at the party. Sometimes the best nights are laundromats + jazz + no expectations.
- French women always carry extra lipstick and will let you borrow some if they like your vibe.
- It’s okay to be a little lost, a little sweaty, and totally underdressed — as long as you show up with curiosity.
And the best part?
When I came back out and the final rinse was done, my clothes were SOFT. Like, unfairly soft. Someone (I suspect Theo) had snuck in a dryer sheet party favor.
🧺 The Afterglow
I walked home through Crown Heights at 1:13am, hugging a bag of warm laundry and humming a Miles Davis tune I didn’t know I knew.
I think that’s the thing about living in New York. No matter how messy, expensive, chaotic it gets — the city forgives you. It lets you press restart. Like a permanent spin cycle of possibility.
Anyway, I never got Theo’s last name or found out if the kombucha was legal, but I did find a new favorite way to do laundry. So next time you lose a sock? Check behind the folding table. Magic might be waiting.
✨
Love (and Fabric Softener),
Rachel 💋
