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In the beginning, there was authority (or building management) and nothin’ been right since

A guy has entered the laundromat and in his heyday he was probably a high school star running back. And back in the day he wore a letterman jacket, drove a red Chevy Camaro, and pimp walked around school with a harem of girlfriends. Think of a chocolate-chocolate OJ Simpson when he was a USC Heisman trophy winner, long before the white Bronco and the loose fitting black leather gloves.

And like OJ, this man’s running back days are gone! Today, he doesn’t have a flashy car or a pretty letterman jacket to show those of us in the laundromat. Today, he sports a beer gut, love handles, and an enormous butt crack for our viewing pleasure. His too small shirt is raising up and his belt-less pant are falling down. Each times he bends over to load the front facing washer, we, the unsuspecting laundromat victims, can almost see his entire ass. Each time he bends to get more clothes, the wind blows up his butt and reveals more crack. Like a train wreck, I watch through open fingers secured over my face.

I’m often described as bold and outspoken but I cannot find the words I want to desperately scream out. I want to say:

“Heeey–don’t you feel that wind, we can-we can see it breezing up your butt.”
“Hey, hey, hey–women and children in here. Cover yourself, MAN.”
“Mister, your pants are falling to your knees, it’s scaring the kids!”

Instead I say nothing, because I am scared. Anybody willing to show his stuff in public is surely a madman. But when I relive it in my mind, I bravely walk up, swat him on the side of his head with the back of my hand, and say:
“Mister! Pull your pants up or go home, your maid doesn’t work here.”