The laundromat on Montana Avenue in Santa Monica wasn't much to look at. Fluorescent lights, the constant hum of industrial dryers, the chemical smell of detergent mixed with ocean salt drifting in from two blocks away. In 1994, Zach Galifianakis walked in carrying a bag of dirty clothes, another struggling comedian in a city full of them, living in a nearby apartment and doing his own laundry because that's what you do when you're nobody.
Marie ""Mimi"" Haist was there, as she always was, helping customers sort their whites from their colors, explaining which setting to use for delicates, collecting the dollar bills and spare change people left as tips. She was fifty-nine years old and had been homeless for nearly a decade.
""I taught him how to wash his clothes,"" Mimi would recall years later, as if this detail explained everything about how their friendship began.
What she didn't mention immediately—what took time to reveal—was where she slept at night. After the laundromat closed and the last customer left, Mimi would unfold a plastic lawn chair and wedge it between two washing machines. The owner let her stay in exchange for her volunteer work during business hours. She'd been living this way for years, invisible to most people, sleeping in the spaces between appliances so customers wouldn't see her when they walked in the next morning.
Galifianakis kept coming back. Not just for the laundry, but to talk to Mimi. She had this energy about her—pink clothes, bright personality, always singing, always laughing. You wouldn't know she was homeless unless she told you. She seemed happier than half the aspiring actors in Los Angeles who had actual apartments and steady paychecks.
They became friends over folded t-shirts and separated socks. Real friends, the kind who talk about everything—life, dreams, sex, whatever came up. Galifianakis was trying to make it in comedy, performing in the back rooms of burger joints, hoping someone would notice. Mimi was trying to survive, collecting tips, sleeping on a lawn chair, pretending her life hadn't completely fallen apart after her divorce left her with nothing.
Years passed. Galifianakis's career started moving. Small roles, then bigger ones. By 2009, he was starring in The Hangover, playing Alan Garner, the weird, loyal friend who always showed up when you needed him. The movie became a massive hit. Suddenly Galifianakis was famous.
He stopped coming to the laundromat. ""Maybe he has his own washer and dryer now,"" Mimi told people when they asked about him, trying to sound cheerful about it.
But Galifianakis hadn't forgotten. Around 2011, after The Hangover Part II was in production, he heard that Mimi was no longer staying at the laundromat. The owner had finally told her she couldn't live there anymore. She was homeless again, staying with various friends, moving from couch to couch, eighty-six years old and running out of options.
When Galifianakis found out, he didn't make a big announcement. He didn't call the press or post about it on social media. He just found her a small apartment—one bedroom, one bathroom, modest but safe—and started paying her rent. He also called his friend Renée Zellweger and asked if she'd help furnish the place. Zellweger showed up with furniture, made sure Mimi had everything she needed.
""I really love it,"" Mimi said about the apartment. ""I have a place where I can sleep and arrange things, and it's really heaven. I really appreciate Zach and Renée for everything they've done. I have a place to live now and my own bed. I now get my social security, so it helps me pay for food and my phone bill.""
But the apartment was just the beginning. Galifianakis invited Mimi to his movie premieres. Not as a publicity stunt—he tried to keep it quiet—but because he genuinely wanted her there. When The Hangover Part II premiered in 2011, a limousine pulled up in front of Mimi's new apartment building. She got dressed up, a friend helped with her makeup, and they drove to the red carpet together.
""If he's in town, he takes me,"" Mimi explained. ""Otherwise he lets me take a friend. I dress up nice and a friend helps me with my makeup. It's fun, not something I've ever dreamed I'd experience. The limo takes me home afterward.""
At the premiere, photographers snapped pictures while Mimi waved at the crowd. ""All the fans were taking photos and I waved at them,"" she said. ""I said, 'They don't know who I am!'"" When people asked if she was Galifianakis's grandmother, Mimi would joke that some people mistook her for his girlfriend.
Galifianakis admitted he still wasn't comfortable with Hollywood red carpet events. ""All of this is very bizarre to me and silly,"" he told reporters. ""The worship of celebrity culture is bad for our culture, to be honest."" But Mimi made it bearable. ""Mimi helps me feel better when I see her there,"" he said. ""I've always tried to invite her to things like that. I like to see her in that atmosphere. Somehow she fits in in a very strange way.""
The afterparties were even better. ""Afterwards, they have a party somewhere close by and you meet the stars,"" Mimi said. ""I drink lemon drop martinis with Grey Goose vodka.""
Meanwhile, across the street from the old laundromat, an aspiring filmmaker named Yaniv Rokah had been watching Mimi for years. He worked at a coffee shop and kept seeing this older woman in pink, working seven days a week, always happy, always singing. He started filming her on his iPhone, asking questions, learning her story.
""I remember thinking, 'Who is this older woman who's working at a laundromat seven days a week? And why does she seem so happy all the time?'"" Rokah recalled. ""Here I am struggling to make it in Hollywood, working at a coffee shop, and across the street there's this ball of fire, like a pink-wearing, singing, dancing diva who turns out to be homeless.""
The footage became Queen Mimi, a documentary released in 2016 that told her full story—the marriage, the divorce, the years on the streets, the plastic lawn chair between the washing machines, and the unlikely friendship with a famous comedian who never forgot where he came from.
Even after she had her own apartment, Mimi went back to the laundromat every day. Not because she had to, but because that's who she was. ""I still go to the laundromat every day,"" she said. ""I do my own washings, of course. I go there to keep busy and teach people how to wash their clothes. People come into the laundromat and say, 'Oh, I know you! You're a star!' It shocks me.""
Galifianakis continued paying her rent for the rest of her life. Ten years, every month, no conditions, no publicity. Just quiet consistency, the way real friendship works.
Mimi died on November 25, 2021, at ninety-six years old. Zellweger had visited her just months before for her birthday. Galifianakis remained her friend until the end.
In the documentary, Galifianakis had described their relationship simply: ""We talk about sex, Mimi and I, and we laugh a lot. It is my honor to know that woman.""
For twenty years, Mimi Haist slept on a plastic lawn chair between washing machines, surviving on tips and kindness from strangers. The last ten years of her life, she slept in her own bed, in her own apartment, paid for by a friend who became famous but never stopped showing up. Their friendship lasted twenty-seven years—proof that genuine compassion doesn't require cameras or headlines, just someone who remembers your name and makes sure you have a place to sleep at night."
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