Gilbert Rogin's "The Sans Souci Launderama"

Gilbert Rogin (Sports Illustrated)

Gilbert Rogin, who died November 4, 2017, age 87, wrote at least thirty-three short stories for The New Yorker. His New York Times obituary describes his work as “droll.” Yes, it is, but it’s more than that. It flashes with slight but profound epiphanies of everyday life. Consider, for example, his description of a refrigerator’s interior:

Listening to the Milkman’s Matinee on Barney’s headset radio, Albert makes his way to the kitchen to get a tangerine. Opening the refrigerator he is dazzled by the burst of light, finding it comparable to the effulgence which in the Rembrandt print reveals the stirring Lazarus, floods Christ’s robes. In that case, the light presumably emanates from the Lord instead of coming from behind the No-Cal cream soda, but the principle is the same. The Renaissance provides a wealth of examples of the Refrigerator Effect – a mysterious source of light, located below eye level in the middle ground. ["Night Thoughts," The New Yorker, September 2, 1974; Chapter 5 of Rogin’s Preparations for the Ascent, 1980]

That “In that case, the light presumably emanates from the Lord instead of coming from behind the No-Cal cream soda, but the principle is the same” makes me smile every time I read it.

My favorite Rogin story is “The Sans Souci Launderama” (The New Yorker, April 28, 1973; Chapter 3, Preparations for the Ascent, 1980), which relates several incidents from the protagonist’s past, including his adventures in a Miami laundromat, where he goes to pick up women – divorcées and widows:

But who can say what will undo one? For instance, here is the same exceptional fellow sitting by himself late at night in the San Souci Launderama, in a Miami shopping center, shedding tears at sea level. Except for the Sans Souci, in which fluorescent tubes distribute their forbidding light on the ranks of washers and dryers, the notices advertising babysitters, lost cats, and used potter’s wheels, the shopping center is dark.

That bit about “the notices advertising babysitters, lost cats, and used potter’s wheels” is superb. “The Sans Souci Launderama” is one of The New Yorker’s most underrated short stories.