Laundrymats Are Fun
To anyone who reading this,
I have to wash my clothes today because my whole room reeks of sweat and ass, so I ask my roommate Gaby to take me to the laundrymat today. Since we're afraid of going to the one located in our ever-so pseudo dangerous neighborhood, we go to the one on Mt. Hope Plaza, where she drops me off.
Now I'm thinking that, once I get in there, I'm going to load my clothes in the washer, feed into it whatever little money I have, and enjoy reading about the Gemini/Monkey sign in Suzanne White's "The New Astrology" while the funk is washed out of my clothes. Only some of those tasks happen. I didn't realize the owner--a skinny, nice Chinese woman who's around my height--loves to talk. And those who know me well know that talking is one of my many hobbies.
So Suzanne White is put away somewhere on a table.
She asks me if I'm student and I tell her the whole story about graduating from college with a Bachelors in English and getting a job as a housekeeper through the Employment Store. "Do you teach?" she asks. "No, but I wanted to," I reply. "You should teach," she says back to me. "I can see you do that and make a lot of money." Then this very Black guy walks in--tall and walking with a slight limp--butts into our conversation by saying to the owner "I can look at her and tell she's got drive in her." It's clear he's talking about me and, because I'm flattered, I think him. But then he says to the owner herself "It's hot in here--we should go to the beach together." "Then you go," she somewhat spits, not even looking at the guy. "I don't want to do anything--I just saying we should go for a swim. What? Is it because I'm a Black man?"
"You a Black man and I'm a Yellow woman. You can be White, Black, Brown, I don't care. I have a husband and I don't want to go anywhere with anybody. I don't care if you are Black man.
I just bust out laughing because this man--who identifies himself as Lenny Armstrong--is clearly crazy. He also used to work at Strong Hospital, where I'm going to be working this week. So I start talking to him about why I'm working there. He tells me about the Union and how I could benefit if I become a permanent employee. In turn, I tell him that I'd like to go back to school to take creative writing courses, since one of the Union benefits is going to school for free. "My ultimate goal is to become a writer, so if I can take one writing class, that'll be cool."
I must admit that, as much as I love talking, it can also get me into weird situations. I don't know why or how it happened, but Lenny says "We should get married because we work well for eath other." And he laughs and so do I, though I'm starting to wish I had Pepper Spray. Then he continues "I can take care of you and wash your feet." Laughs and then grabs and rubs my shoulder.
Lord, Jesus, Lord. How does it get to this?
After a while, he asks me if I want his phone munber and I'm kinda nervous about that. Nonetheless, I say yes, even though I wouldn't call him anyway. He must not have heard me because he's saying "That's ok. I just wanted to hang out and just talk or anything. You the type of woman I'm looking for--pretty and light." Then he starts talking about how he now has his deceased mother's house and has to fix it up and I'm just looking at him, thinking to myself "this motherfucker has got to get away from me." Even the owner is looking at him like he's ten different shades of crazy.
Anyway, he leaves and the owner is like "He's sick. He's always talking like that, so you shouldn't be too nice. You have to be careful." Which is very true.
I get up and put my clothes in the dryer, sit back down and pick up a copy of "Redbook." I don't like "Redbook"; for obvious reasons, it just comes off as one of THOSE magazines that cater to someone I would never be--a desperate housewife. And I'm not talking about Eva Longoria. Now Martha Steward is an exception because I think she's bomb. But I digress. For some reason, though, I pick it up and start reading about a woman who cheated on her husband with a co-worker and I get real into it because it's like a cheesy Lifetime movie in writing. The formula for one is all there. While I was reading it, this cute Hispanic guy and his little boy walks in. While I'm talking to the owner about the article and this guy is like "She's a ho." Confused, the owner asks "What's a ho?" "A whore," the guy says. She's still confused, so she turns to me. "What's a ho?" "It's another way to call a woman a slut," I answer. Now the light bulb goes off. "Oh!" she says and she laughs.
The Hispanic guy has to be curious because he asks "What do you call a ho in your country?" She looks at him and says "A chicken." Now we and the cute guy laugh because, here in America, a woman who does nothing but spend up her lover's money, sleeps around, and has nothing going for herself is called a Chicken Head. And the fact that kind of woman is given that same tag in China shows that funny insulting language is truly universal.
You see--experiences like this is one of the many reasons why I love to travel by myself. I can't wait until my clothes smell like ass again.
Later days.