On August 12th, 2010 I tired of doing my own laundry. The following is a collection of “conversations” I’ve had with the attendant at the laundromat, one amongst the many on Torrance Avenue, that I was fortunate to haphazardly choose as the laundromat for me. My name is Josh. His name, to the best of my limited knowledge of this man, is Laundry Guy. Enjoy.
LG: Hey. Here to pick up?
Me: Yep. It’s free for me today.
LG: Not today.
Me: It’s my birthday, I thought laundry was free on my birthday.
LG: May 12th is your birthday, too?
Me: Whoa. It’s your birthday?
LG: May 12th.
Me: Me, too.
Silence
Me: So, I guess it’s not free, huh?
LG: Not today.
Me: Hey, boss. Haven’t gone back to Caracas, yet?
LG: Mexicali.
Me: Yeah, right. Got my ticket.
LG: (handing my bags to me) $29
Me: (Handing him $30) Sorry I’m a day late.
LG: (Handing me change) And a dollar short? (eye-balling the tip can.)
Me: Nope.
On January 17th, after weeks of doing my own laundry due to the sudden departure of LG from my laundering life, I decided I was too busy for laundry and returned, sad-eyed, to that laundromat on Torrance Blvd. Not expecting much of anything, I approached the counter, lifted my bags over the gate and this is what happened:
Me: Hello. Anyone home. Here to drop off.
Voice: Just a minute.
Me: LG?
Voice: In a minute.
Me: Paolito?
LG: Here to drop off?
Me: (remembering my respective station in this relationship) I’m not picking you up for dinner.
LG: Good. I’m not paying.
Me: I thought you moved back to Caracas.
LG: Who said that?
Me: Ummm. Laundry Lady?
LG: I had to help my uncle with his family in Mexicali.
Me: That’s a lot different than moving to Caracas.
LG: What is that?
Me: Bingo.
LG: Pick up tomorrow.
Me: You bet.
And with that the fluff and fold yin, to my drop and grab yang have been reunited. Caracas. What is that, indeed.
On December 1st, 2010 I dropped off my laundry. After roughly 6 weeks of intermittent LG sightings, much less interaction, I learned from LL (Laundry Lady) that LG had moved back to his homeland of Caracas, Venezuela. I hadn’t pegged LG as Venezuelan. He looked and outbursted nothing like Carlos Zambrano, after all. Shows what I know of Venezuelans.
I also learned that his name was/is Paolito. Little Paulie. I kind of like that better than LG. But, it’s too late now.
Unless LL proves to be more than the pleasant, smiling, pudgily-agreeable woman that I have met on several occasions, this blog will cease to exist.
Me and LG reminded me of Tom Cruise and his paper guy in A Few Good Men, albeit in a much worse-natured kind of way. Sharing barbs, caring only enough to mildly aggravate each other and then turn our attentions elsewhere more important.
So long, Little Paulie. So long, LG.
Me: Hello. Anybody…
LL: (The Laundry Lady) Coming. Coming.
Me: Here to drop off.
LL: One second and I’ll get your ticket.
Me: What happened to the guy?
LL: Paolito?
Me: I guess.
(Awkwardness.)
Me: Was he the only guy that worked here?
LL: Yes.
Me: Then, yes, Paolito. What happened to Paolito?
LL: He moved back to Caracas.
Me: Venezuela?
LL: I think so.
Me: Are you related to Paolito?
LL: No.
