Last night, I was that guy at the laundry pagoda. My plan was to get some laundry done and shave my legs between cycles. At one point, I came in to transfer a load with only one leg shaved. With both legs shaved, one may not have even noticed, but wearing just one leg of a pair of gorilla trousers tends to switch alarms. My only laundry pagoda-mate was a hillbilly wearing his finest slick evening hair, smoking (albeit just outside) and reading a fantasy novel with a watercolered swordsman on the cover. He kept calling me "boss." As in, "Let me step outside to get out of your way boss."
Mr. Hillbilly, apparently in my employ, may have let the hairless monopod slide, but, as this was household laundry, my next load was panty-rich. Sorting the light underpanties from the dark, I looked like a collecter or a connoisseur of soiled unmentionables. And then, after starting the laundry load of lace, I sealed the deal with the ultimate in evening creepiness.
First I have to explain that I hate cigarette smoke. Mr. Hill had been chain puffing his little cigarettes, the smoke from which threatened to waft into my clothes like a cartoon roast-smell finding a dog's nose. I decided the washing machine effectively sealed my clothes in and his toxic stink cloud out, but I had another pressing fear, that his smoke-stink clothes would have fouled the dryer.
With this fear I was ready to find antoher laundry house, but I decided to test it first. How? Why I collected and sniffed the lint, of course. As much sense as this made to me, I can only imagine how it looks to have the hairless panty-man sniffing your laundry lint. Turns out my fear was unfounded and I dried my clothes there. And I don't suspect Mr. Hill will much longer remain in my employ.