i almost got stabbed at the laundromat (pt. 1) [Liam]
So.... I went to the laundromat, looking to do some laundry.
You know, because that's what people do at the laundromat.
That, apparently, and start the stupidest fucking disputes in history of stupid fucking disputes (with yours truly).
Check this out-- around 9:30 on Monday night, I drag the hamper out of my room and make the block-long pilgrimage to the laundry place on my block. Intending to observe the amount of foot traffic in the joint and assess whether or not I can leave my clothes unsupervised for any length of time, I've also packed a sketch book, a steno book, a book book and a cd player.
I figure I have all my bases covered, in fact I know I'm covering them a bit too much. I feel like a kid on the first day of school. Laundromat school... like... you know, this whole public access washing machine thing is pretty new to me. The coin-op machines in my various dorms have provided all my pre-requisite technical experience, but I'll be damned if I pretend to know the first thing about the culture of a laundry place on Taraval street. Granted, it's probably nothing difficult at all, but I'm just not the most confident guy going into a new situation sometimes.
I'm listening to the soundtrack for Wong Kar Wai's "In the Mood for Love," and selections from my newly purchased "Wu-Tang Clan: Enter the 36 Chambers" (more about that later). Thirty minutes into my wash cycle a skinny, dark haired dude with rather effete mannerisms asks me if the clothes sitting idle in one of the dryers are mine. The rest of the bank of dryers are occupied, and busily spinning away.
I tell him: "Nope."
He turns, walks over to the immediate area of the dryers, and poses the same question to the rest of the patrons. No luck. I continue scribbling in my steno pad.
Time passes. I think about a lot of stuff (Mowgli, I should try calling you in India sometime. Mike Barnecut, I need your email).
Some indeterminate time later (I'd guess about a half hour from where my laundry was) this rather tightly-wound guy with a shaved head approaches me, and asks me "did you move the stuff in one of the dryers." There's no question mark because he says it with the dry intonation of a statement rather than a question. He has a faintly latin accent and I need him to repeat himself three times before I can tell if he is saying "Do you move" or "Did you move." I think "Diyou" is how I would write it.
I tell him: "Nope."
He poses this question to various patrons of the laundromat. No luck. He goes outside and makes a call on his phone. Time passes. I decide to try making my first true type font when I get back. I buy a beer at the liquor store across the street, but don't open it. It's one of those 24-ouncers in the individual brown paper bags. That's just ghetto, Liam. I'm on my way to go add more quarters to my dryer load when I see the bald guy unloading laundry from a dryer. He seems to be dumping the stuff on the floor. I see a maroon-striped towel like the one I have. And a grey and black polo like my favorite grey and black polo. This guy is dumping my clothes. On the fucking floor. Is this some ritual of the laundromat natives I don't know about? Is it a common thing to put other peoples' stuff on the floor? No... no. There's band-aids and lint there.
I'm all: "Whoawhoawhoawhoa dude, what are you doing?"
Guy spins around. His eyes are very intense. He's mad... which strikes me as odd considering it's my clean clothes on the floor. The word "crazy" jumps into my head in big block letters.
He's all: "You took my girlfriend's stuff out of the dryer. You can't do that. That ain't cool."
I'm like: "I don't know what you're talking about."
He's like: "No. You took it out of this dryer. That's not cool."
So then I'm all: "I didn't take anything out of any dryer. It was empty when I got it."
Then muhfucker is yelling: "No. Uh-uh. You did. That's not cool."
and some other shit like: "You can't do that."
He is very mad, and very convinced that he is right. It occurs to me that for this man achieving "very convinced" does not require a mountain of empirical logic. I could not get that mad at a stranger I didn't catch in the act. His nostrils are flaring up like black, hairy gun barrels and he has this wrinkly, veiny shit going on near his temples.
I'm cornered, and totally disarmed by his clever use of precedents established in the famous case of "nuh-uh versus yeah-huh"
You know, because that's what people do at the laundromat.
That, apparently, and start the stupidest fucking disputes in history of stupid fucking disputes (with yours truly).
Check this out-- around 9:30 on Monday night, I drag the hamper out of my room and make the block-long pilgrimage to the laundry place on my block. Intending to observe the amount of foot traffic in the joint and assess whether or not I can leave my clothes unsupervised for any length of time, I've also packed a sketch book, a steno book, a book book and a cd player.
I figure I have all my bases covered, in fact I know I'm covering them a bit too much. I feel like a kid on the first day of school. Laundromat school... like... you know, this whole public access washing machine thing is pretty new to me. The coin-op machines in my various dorms have provided all my pre-requisite technical experience, but I'll be damned if I pretend to know the first thing about the culture of a laundry place on Taraval street. Granted, it's probably nothing difficult at all, but I'm just not the most confident guy going into a new situation sometimes.
I'm listening to the soundtrack for Wong Kar Wai's "In the Mood for Love," and selections from my newly purchased "Wu-Tang Clan: Enter the 36 Chambers" (more about that later). Thirty minutes into my wash cycle a skinny, dark haired dude with rather effete mannerisms asks me if the clothes sitting idle in one of the dryers are mine. The rest of the bank of dryers are occupied, and busily spinning away.
I tell him: "Nope."
He turns, walks over to the immediate area of the dryers, and poses the same question to the rest of the patrons. No luck. I continue scribbling in my steno pad.
Time passes. I think about a lot of stuff (Mowgli, I should try calling you in India sometime. Mike Barnecut, I need your email).
Some indeterminate time later (I'd guess about a half hour from where my laundry was) this rather tightly-wound guy with a shaved head approaches me, and asks me "did you move the stuff in one of the dryers." There's no question mark because he says it with the dry intonation of a statement rather than a question. He has a faintly latin accent and I need him to repeat himself three times before I can tell if he is saying "Do you move" or "Did you move." I think "Diyou" is how I would write it.
I tell him: "Nope."
He poses this question to various patrons of the laundromat. No luck. He goes outside and makes a call on his phone. Time passes. I decide to try making my first true type font when I get back. I buy a beer at the liquor store across the street, but don't open it. It's one of those 24-ouncers in the individual brown paper bags. That's just ghetto, Liam. I'm on my way to go add more quarters to my dryer load when I see the bald guy unloading laundry from a dryer. He seems to be dumping the stuff on the floor. I see a maroon-striped towel like the one I have. And a grey and black polo like my favorite grey and black polo. This guy is dumping my clothes. On the fucking floor. Is this some ritual of the laundromat natives I don't know about? Is it a common thing to put other peoples' stuff on the floor? No... no. There's band-aids and lint there.
I'm all: "Whoawhoawhoawhoa dude, what are you doing?"
Guy spins around. His eyes are very intense. He's mad... which strikes me as odd considering it's my clean clothes on the floor. The word "crazy" jumps into my head in big block letters.
He's all: "You took my girlfriend's stuff out of the dryer. You can't do that. That ain't cool."
I'm like: "I don't know what you're talking about."
He's like: "No. You took it out of this dryer. That's not cool."
So then I'm all: "I didn't take anything out of any dryer. It was empty when I got it."
Then muhfucker is yelling: "No. Uh-uh. You did. That's not cool."
and some other shit like: "You can't do that."
He is very mad, and very convinced that he is right. It occurs to me that for this man achieving "very convinced" does not require a mountain of empirical logic. I could not get that mad at a stranger I didn't catch in the act. His nostrils are flaring up like black, hairy gun barrels and he has this wrinkly, veiny shit going on near his temples.
I'm cornered, and totally disarmed by his clever use of precedents established in the famous case of "nuh-uh versus yeah-huh"
TO BE CONTINUED
(i'm going to sleep)
6 Comments:
That's a pretty hardcore laundry dispute.
Daaaaaayum.
where part 2 at
I don't know if it's a bug, but when I signed in to post my most recent I could see other peoples' drafts in the list. So, if that's still working, you could read it there.
haha thats what you get for leaving Fremont...
Nice update on the webpage...
Yeah where is part 2 at? I want to know about the "More on 36 Chambers Later" shit...
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