Saturday morning laundry is a ritual: roomie and I carry our own things around the block to the laundromat, hang out and talk and dish, and wash our clothes. It’s very fun, very Manhattan, and it’s nice to have clean clothes.
This week, however, she’s out of town! Lonely laundry for little yours truly!
Or perhaps not?
Walking toward the laundromat I happened past a guy also carrying a laundry bag. He stopped me and, in an untraceable European accent, asked me where the laundromat was. We introduced ourselves and I told him to follow me to the laundromat. After a pleasant chat, he dropped off his laundry, while I stayed to do mine.
Thirty minutes later, the laundry owner approached me with the phone:
“The guy you come in with… He called. Wants to talk to you.” I took the phone, bemused and a touch embarassed.
That great accent: “Hi, Meghan, I’m actually playing [drums with a band] on Tuesday, near the school, would you like to come?”
“Oh, I’m actually going to a reading on Tuesday, but can I give you my number to let me know of any other gigs?”
And that’s why you must always do your own laundry.