Clothes Chute

The clothes chute in our house was built by hacks. They’d never built a clothes chute before. It was ‘39 and they were the only carpenters available.  They were asked to give it their best shot and they botched the job badly. Am I bitter? Of course I am. It’s the clothes chute. The coolest part of any American home, if done right.

It’s a tunnel, a cave, a conduit, a trap door. It beats any communication device for sending messages floor to floor. It’s a way to get something to the basement lightning-quick. It’s magical, it’s mysterious, it’s a wonder to children, a brilliant tool for adults. But ours was made by broken men who must have hated themselves, for they couldn't get it right, and that had to haunt them.

The chute was too narrow for starters. Most times my wife or I throw clothes down there, the clothes get stuck. The kids try and clear it by tossing more clothes down, but that results in a log jam. This then has to be cleared with two coat hangers stretched out and duct taped together. I keep this home-made tool behind a book shelf.

What happens next is pathetic. The clothes often tear. They tear on screws sticking out of the sheet metal lining. The same screws that, from time to time, halt the descent of small items that ordinarily would slide swiftly to the basement. What design were these moon-calves following? Why on earth would sharp metal points protrude from a clothes chute? We latch on to the stuck clothing with our coat-hanger tool, pull up, and hear the record-scratch sound of fabric tearing. It’s deflating.

My friends say, “Just carry the clothes downstairs in a basket.” I say, “Nuts to that noise, I have a clothes chute, and I’m damn well going to use it.”

Sometimes I can go a floor below and pull the clothes down by reaching high up into the chute with my right arm. Sometimes my arm scrapes against those exposed  metal points and I bleed down the tunnel into the laundry barrel below. Dry blood can be tough to wash out of dirty laundry.

I despise the men who built my clothes chute.  I want them identified and publicly embarrassed. In a better world my chute would be twice as roomy, with copper sides massaging the laundry as it heads south. In a different life the doors would be cherry wood, with brass handles, and the chute would take a couple of designated turns, sending items to the garage if needed, or to my car.

But I don’t think designers are working on the American clothes chute anymore. I think they’re all too busy trying to perfect the electric car. Me, I don’t need an electric car. When it rains I’d just be electrocuted. But a good clothes chute, by God, I yearn for that like a barber craves a good dust pan.