Mr. Blog's Tepid Ride

After a long day at work (where I recalled my days unloading trucks at Kids-R-Us by moving heavy boxes) I had some errands to run. First, I drove out to Valley Stream to pick up a new sport coat and slacks at Men’s Wearhouse. Then I came back to Brooklyn to do my laundry. If somehow my car disappeared I would have lost a significant portion of my wardrobe and would have had to go the LHS graduation tomorrow in my sweat pants and Superman T-shirt. And say, now that I think about it, that’s not such a bad idea, maybe………… nah.

The laundromat is a place that, you would think, wouldn’t be worthy of a blog. And usually you’d be right. But you all read my last blog about my haircuts and if I’ll write about that then you know I’ll write about anything, no matter how stupid, boring, or interesting only to me. (Sorry, Liz and Michelle.)

But occasionally the laundromat can be interesting. There was that time on The Brady Bunch when Bobby got his pants filthy rescuing a cat from a condemned house. He put an entre box of soap in the washing machine. It overflowed and Alice nearly drowned, until Marsha gave her mouth to mouth. For years the networks refused to air that part, fearing it came just a smidge too close to a lesbian kiss. Sometimes it pops up late at night on Cinemax. Did The Partridge Family do a laundry episode? I’ll bet it involved Ruben Kincaid and Danny.

I’ve written about my past laundry escapades. There was the time I hit on (or was hit on by- I still am not sure what I said) by an old, wrinkly, tattooed lady. There was the very memorable time when, simply by answering Jeopardy! questions, I was nearly attacked by a guy dressed all in red who was just jealous that I was so much more brilliant than he is. But it was obvious even if I never opened my mouth- he was dressed, head to toe, in red, from red hat to red sneakers, with red red red in between. No one EVER looks good that way, unless you’re Satan. You’ve got to admit, love him or hate him, Satan has style. (And now I’ll sit back and wait for the comments.)

Then there was today.

Everyone, I would like you ask yourself this question: “Self? Hello, are you listening? Pay attention, please. Who is the least likely person to walk into the laundromat while Barry is doing his laundry?” (If you got my 7:06 text message you already know. But play along anyway. And also ignore all the sentences I am starting with conjunctions.)

Was it:
Aaron Carter, one-time teen heartthrob and current MIA?
Former British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher?
Ruben Studdard, with mustard stains on his pants?
The Iron Sheik, 1970s WWF champion?

No, it was none of those.

Was it:
Frank Sinatra Junior?
Kathy Kong?
Abraham Lincoln?
Marc’s daughter Liana?

No.

Was it: (Is this annoying? I like it. It pads the blog.)
Edward D. Wood Junior?
All the original members of The Temptations?
Fictional character Charlie Gordon?
Adolph Hitler?

Yes.

It was Hitler.

I was folding my laundry, fresh from the dryer, when I looked up and, standing less than twelve feet away, close enough to give me the crawling heebie-jeebies, was JOLANTA ROHLOFF.

You may have heard of her.

For those of you who do not know her, I envy you. She is the person whom I hold (along with Rick Mangone) personally responsible for the destruction of Lafayette High School. And since I was just excessed from that school, well, let’s just say that Jolanta was not a person whom I particularly want to see. (And before I go on, I would like to apologize to Michelle for passing up this opportunity to stuff her head in the spin cycle. I know that’s what you would have done.)

I look up and see her standing at the machine that dispenses those debit-style laundry cards. Right away I knew she was in trouble- the machine only displays words in English, not semi-illiterate Polish. She looked confused, and her face was not at all helped by her hairstyle, which is still the same one you saw in that great picture of her from the newspaper when the students staged a walkout, a sort-of semi Moe Howard cut.

After the initial shock wore off, I realized that she had glanced over at me a couple of times. Perhaps she recognized a former “titcher” but was too embarrassed to say hi. Maybe she realized that she destroyed the damn school and maybe I would not have much to say to her. Maybe she didn’t know who I was and thought maybe I was her old next-door neighbor from Warsaw. Or maybe she didn’t say anything to me because I was busy snubbing her.

So began a few minutes where I pretend that I didn’t see her, despite her being almost right across from me, and her staring at me, only to quickly turn away when I looked at her.

It was odd.

(BTW- she had a small tote bag of laundry, which she put in a small machine and filled with All. I didn’t see what she was washing, but I think I maybe saw a swastika in the rinse cycle.)

She must have grown uncomfortable because she went to the bathroom and stayed there for, I am not kidding, almost 20 minutes. And when she came out she sat in the front seat of her car with her head down. Now I am not implying that she was hiding from me- I am outright stating that she was hiding from me. (This is MY neighborhood, bitch- GET OUT.)

Eventually her machine ended and she came in, about the time I was done folding. And a good thing too, as there is something unwholesome about the thought of Jolanta staring at my underwear.

Well, she put her foul things in the dryer and I started pushing my basket out to my car, and she almost walked right in front of me (and I would have knocked her over, have no doubt) until she remembered that she was not supposed to see me and turned around and pretended that she dropped something. Which she had not.

I have now seen her at my dry cleaner, at my local Rite Aid, and now at my laundromat. If I see her buying a slice at Mike’s I’ll have to move.

Well, that’s about it. The whole thing lasted only around half an hour, but those few minutes lasted as long as Monday night’s Mets-Mariners game, which I was at and trust me, seven innings (that’s when I left) lasted a freakin’ eternity.