Play with the devil and he’ll spit in your eye
An old woman who appeared race-less stood wearing a crocheted cap cocked to the side like the Black Panthers once wore their leather berets. She might have once lived near Huey Newton in West Oakland but she's no militant, she was probably too tired to put the cap on all the way. She’s talking to herself, something about stupid low-down people who come and get the coins that are supposed to be for the Laundromat customers. She repeats herself louder this time. “That’s what’s wrong with the world today, those ole’ low down nasty people taking quarters from the customers' machines. Now they know better than that.” She looks directly at me. She has moved closer without me knowing. I gotta pay better attention, even old folks can get the drop on you these days. My home training tells me to acknowledge her. “Well there’s enough for everybody.” I say and look away quickly not wanting to continue this useless and unnecessary conversation, in of all places, the damn Laundromat. “Well they shouldn’t do it,” she says. Noticing that I had turn away she moves so, so, s-l-o-w-l-y with her wheeled-walker. Her voice trails off mumbling unrecognized words now. She’s getting her wet clothes and taking them to one of the really LARGE dryers. Good luck drying everything I think in that smart aleck way as my clothes spin themselves into soapy irresistible frenzy. I watch with both delight and dismay.
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