Laundry Room Happenings

I was downstairs, talking to a friend who was working at the front desk, when another resident approached to check out a cart. No big deal. For the most part, I don't care what other people do.

But about forty-five minutes later, when I went to the laundry room to start my laundry, the same resident was present. I was minding my own business, sorting laundry, when he just had to start a conversation. No big deal? Not so much.

The laundry room is an interesting place--a place where no one really wants to interact with strangers. Think about it. There you are, sorting your undergarments and towels and clothes, when a total stranger starts talking to you. And if he's particularly creepy, he'll stand just a little too close, and make you want to hide said undergarments, just in case he's as pervy as you suspect.

This particular stranger started the conversation with, "I like your tattoo. Can I see it?"

No big deal. I have tattoos on my feet. When I wear flip-flops or open-top shoes, I expect people to look. If I cared, I would wear real shoes. So I said okay and turned around so he could see them.

"Oh wow. Flowers. That's nice. Kinda reminds me of how your hair smells like flowers."

Umm. . . yeah. . .

One: there are no flowers on my feet. There's a piece of Indonesian tribal art (which doesn't look like flowers), a butterfly (again, not to be confused with flowers), and a bird in flight (which definitely doesn't look like flowers). Two: I know my hairspray smells like flowers, but strangers are not supposed to talk to me about it.

My response: Nervous laughter and a quick "thanks." I have no clue what I was thanking him for, but it seemed appropriate, and I thought it might shut him up.

"I know it may sound cheesy, but it's true. You know?"

"Uh huh," as I avoid eye contact and quickly sort laundry into the washers.

"What's your name?"

"Allison."

"Where do you live?"

"[General area of the building.]"

Note: I did not ask for the same information. It was readily offered. I don't really give a shit where he lives or what his name is. In fact, I couldn't care less as long as he doesn't show up as the resident stalker/pervert. If he does, then his personal identifying information and address could come in handy when turning his ass in to the police.

So I finished sorting my laundry, waited for the doors on the washers to lock, debated staying to guard my clothing, and then left the room, muttering a quick "Have a good day" on the way out.

But I would not be so lucky as I had hoped. Guess who was still in the laundry room when I returned to put my clothes in the dryers? That's right. Creepy flower boy.

He even stuck his hand out as I walked past, which forced me to brush up against him. As you may have guessed, one of the last things I wanted to do today was touch that guy.

"You don't like high-fives?"

Umm. . . think fast!. . . "Oh. I just wasn't paying attention."

Then I switched my clothes over to the dryers, kept an eye on him to make sure his pervy self stayed on the other side of the room, again debated staying to guard my laundry, and made my exit, hoping that all my clothing would still be there when I returned.

I'm thinking of putting up signs in the laundry room--right next to all the signs that say, "Warning! Laundry has been stolen. Please stay with your laundry until it is done." My signs are going to say, "Warning! Creepy pervy guy has been spotted. Speak to him at your own risk. (His name is ******, and he lives on *********.)"