There is this charming trait that I learned by growing up in New England: If someone wrongs you, it is your right, nay, it is your duty to make sure that these people pay for it for the rest of their natural lives. This aggression is most commonly played out in my interaction with neighborhood service providers.
This behavior is a source of some contention with my dear Katie McGlynn, whose official motto is, "Can't we pay someone else to do that?" She works from about 8 am to 2 am. Her time is more precious than a baby's tears, which believe you me fetch a pretty penny on the black market. So she relies, a lot, on other people to do things for her. Unfortunately for her, at least once a week there is a new service provider in our neighborhood that has wronged me in some way.
"We can't go in there." I recently declared, referring now to our once favorite running store.
"Oh no..." Katie replies with an appropriately furrowed brow, her voice trailing off towards the end.
"The mean guy is in there."
"What mean guy?"
"The mean guy. I think he's a manager. He's always in there."
"Well, what did he say to you?"
"Nothing. That's the point."
"What?" She is confused. "So let me get this straight. Because the guy wasn't overly nice, he was mean? And now we can't go there?"
"Well I just think that they're our neighborhood running store. It should be friendly."
This happens with a lot of places. Blacklisted for things they didn't even know they didn't do. The internet was invented so people could complain about things. (Well for that and selling baby tears.)
One fall morning, when returning from a run, Katie stopped by our laundry to pick up the wash and fold. The total came to 26 dollars. She had, in her limited-pocket running outfit, just twenty five dollars. The lady wouldn't just give it to her. I mean we are in there all the time. At least twice a week. We'd get the stinkin' dollar to her. Katie became incensed. Vengeance, you see, is contagious.
When Katie came back to inform me it that was time to find a new laundry service, I fell in love all over again. She had been wronged by a service provider and she wasn't going to take it anymore.
"We'll show them!" We cried in unison.
The search was on. I asked a friend and neighbor where he gets his laundry done. His text message reply:
"United Laundry on Seventh. Ask for Judy, speak little English. She call you nice boy give you good deal."
Sold.
For a place that people take their things to be cleaned, United Laundry is a real fuckin' mess. The front part that welcomes the customer looks like a 1977 trophy shop, only, like, all the trophies have been stolen or sold to pay for drugs.
There is also some sort of broken religious shrine.
The counter is too high and unnecessary, and there is an outdated cash register, but you can't see how much anything costs. In fact, there is no price list of any kind, anywhere.
To the right of the counter there is a scale that weighs the bags of laundry. If you place your laundry on this scale it will weigh at least five to seven pounds less than if one of the ladies behind the counter adjusts it. Each one of them has an advance degree in physics specializing in centers of gravity.
Above the scale is perhaps the laundry's most curious attribute. There are a series of notes saying things like:
"Thank so much for finding my watch and not washing it. Another laundry might have sold it for drugs."
"Thanks for finding my wallet. Other people might have stolen. But not you."
All these notes are in the same hand writing, same paper, same black sharpie pen and the same not quite native English prose. They are a real comfort.
Your clothes are then taken from you. Literally. They are just taken from you. You get an unofficial looking sheet of paper that has some scribble on it and you are left wondering, "Will I ever see my lucky underpants again?"
But you return a day later with the scribbled note and your clothes are given to you. Actually your clothes. The ones that belong to you. It shouldn't surprise me every time, but it does. The clincher? It is really cheap. It is so cheap that we wonder if our clothes are actually being washed.
So despite the sketchy appearance, everything turns out pretty good. Once, Katie went in to pick up some dry cleaning and Judy says, "You have tear in your skirt so I don't clean. But I fix for you and wash."
"Sure, how much?" Katie asks.
"No charge. You the customer. I just wanted to make sure its okay with you first."
How neighborly.
So I was feeling pretty good when I went in this weekend to pick up our freshly washed and folded clothing. I lugged the 25 pounds up our fourth floor walk up and plopped it down, doing what I always do; wait for Katie to get home so she can sort the laundry. But something caught my eye.
Tied in a knot, sealing the mouth of the laundry bag shut was a rose embroidered, pink pair of women's panties. It would have been a small consolation if they were Katie's panties, but they were not. These were in fact a stranger's panties. Tied like pretty ribbon around what is an otherwise ugly, military green laundry bag.
Everything about this is totally baffling. We can begin, if you like, with: Whose panties are these? And then continue right down the list of reasonable questions like: Should we say something? Should we return them? What kind of person would tie panties to a laundry bag? Why would you tie them to the laundry bag? Where are the rubber gloves so I can remove them?
But the most obvious question is asked by Katie, "So we can't go back there, right?"
"Well, let's not jump to any conclusions." I say. The only thing the Chappie loves more than vengeance is a really good deal. And we got a free pair of panties to boot!
