Monday, October 20, 2008

Laundromat Trauma by Leona Leone Beasley

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

A guy has entered the Laundromat and in his hay-day he was probably a high school star running back. And back in the day he wore a letterman's jacket, drove a red Chevy Camaro and pimped 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 nor a pretty letterman's 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 wreak I watch through opened fingers secured over my face.

I'm often described as bold and out spoken but I can not 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 pant's are falling to your knees, it's scaring the kids!"

Instead I say nothing because I was 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 pant's up or go home, your maid doesn't work here."

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