Behold: Mr. Burbujas, aka Mr. Bubbles. The humanoid washing machine prances across the exterior wall of the Laundromat that bears his name. His fleshy legs are swathed in gym socks pulled high, and he kicks his sneakered feet high into the air, overcome with the giddy ecstasy of cleanliness. Bubbles percolate enticingly from his soap receptacle, and one muscular arm holds a basket of laundry aloft. The other washing machines have no legs. They sit in humble rows before Mr. Burbujas, also grinning, celebrating his mobility. "Come," he seems to say, as he playfully flicks bubbles from his free hand, "wash your things in me." A spare pair of boxers, decorated in a festive chile-pepper print, lies on the floor at his feet. Inside you will find the real-world embodiment of the mural — bright yellow walls and ample rows of maquinas grandes. Open their faces and shove your laundry into them. Mr. Burbujas would want you to.