The third had a piece of cardboard propped against it with “$60. AS IS. NO RETURNS” written in black Sharpie.
I walked around it, inspecting. It was old—probably from the early 2000s based on the style. White, top-loading, with some rust spots on the corners and a dent in the side panel. The door to the detergent dispenser was missing. One of the knobs looked like it had been glued back on at some point.
But it was sixty bucks, and it was either this or hand-washing clothes in the bathtub for three kids who went through outfits like they were competing in a speed-changing contest.
“Does it work?” I asked the clerk, a guy in his fifties with a name tag that said “RON” and an expression that suggested he’d answered this question too many times already.
“It ran when we tested it last week,” Ron said with a shrug. “That’s all I can tell you. As-is means as-is.”
“Right.”
I stared at the machine, doing mental math. Sixty dollars. If it worked for even six months, that was worth it. If it died immediately, I’d just lost sixty dollars I couldn’t afford to lose.
“It’s this or hand wash,” I muttered to myself.
“Dad, can we leave?” Hazel asked, tugging on my jacket. “This place smells funny.”
“Five minutes, sweetheart. We’re buying this.”
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