06 June 2009
 
Laundry Bandit

It has been the strangest weather. I thought about the thousands who waited in the rain, sixty-five years ago this morning for a break in the clouds to travel across the English Channel. They got their break, and saved the world.
 
I am just hoping for some quality pool time, a break in the rain so I can get completely wet.
 
The endless drops came with the boom of thunder and crack of lightning at the beginning of the week, and it has rained ever since, almost without stop.
 
It finally slowed to a trickle last night, the fine drops making an elegant pattern of expanding circles on the surface of the pool, lit by the pool lights.
 
But it was a long damned walk from the PX parking lot at Bolling Air Force Base, the closet place to the Agency I could leave the Bluesmobile without getting a Federal ticket. The rain was relentless. The soil had taken up all it could, and the grass was awash and the sidewalks long reflecting pools.
 
I kept the umbrella handle in a death grip and tried to insert myself completely into the modest shelter of the little awning.
 
This has killed the pool, of course, the only real social venue for Big Pink. Things were just starting to get in the groove. Tara the tattooed masseuse is making a big presence this year. She wears a cover-up over her suit that drapes like a greek goddess, and sets off the ink on her arms nicely.
 
Jen has been bringing the world’s Cutest Baby in his rolling fortress stroller, and between the two of them, all the gossip has been covered nicely.
 
Mrs. Hitler is hanging on gamely, but she has been ill and seems a little frail, so someone has to pick up the slack.
 
As I walked through the puddles toward the looming dark building, I puzzled through the mystery. Why would someone have stolen a load of laundry?
 
There was a hand-written sign posted on the 4th floor elevator panel. “To whom it may Concern,” it began, and then went on to describe the articles that had been purloined from the east laundry room. Baby blankets, towels, personal items. The usual stuff you would wash with regularity.
 
I got on the elevator and stabbed at the button for the first floor, looking at my watch. It was after eight, when Rhonda comes on. That was good, since Marku the night shift concierge is a great guy but would be more comfortable discussing the mystery in his native Amaric.
 
All I can do in that language is order a large coffee (“Talik buna, effendi-galu,”) and say thank-you very much “”Ama secon-alu.”). That clearly was not going to get me far.
 
When the doors slid open, I saw Rhonda talking to Montana. I walked up to the desk and leaned over for my morning hug. She is a hell of a gal, knows everything and everyone in the building, and never fails to make me smile.
 
“So what’s up with the laundry thieves,” I said. “Have the people from that damned new building across the parking lot started to raid our washing machines?’
 
Montana didn’t know about the mystery, so it became clear that the crime wave was restricted to the 4th floor. That made the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. Would I have to take a ball bat down to the laundry room and sit on the dryer? That would be a bore.
 
“It was a sad thing. The gal who reported it missing is pregrnant and the load of wash had all her baby things in it. She will have to completely replace everything.”
 
“That’s too bad,” I said. “Who would take someone’s laundry? Nothing would fit, and you couldn’t mistake it for your own, could you? No one is blind on our floor.”
 
“Well, Honey, you are right about that. But maybe the lady forgot the time, and her things were in the dryer holding someone else up.”
 
“Jeeze,” I said. “Common practice is to just remove the stuff and put it on the folding table.”
 
“Some people are laundry vigilantes,” said Rhonda pensively. “I think they might have just taken the load out of the dryer and dropped it down the trash chute. The recycling room is right next door.”
 
I thought about that as I gave Rhonda a peck on the cheek and girded myself to head out into the rain.
 
“Now, who would be that cold?” I asked. “We are a community here.”
 
Rhonda shook her head. “Nope. There are some people who just want things their way, and they will do what they want just out of spite and vinegar.” She named a couple of them in the building, and I had to agree.
 
Maybe if the weather clears up, we can sort it out in a Kangaroo Court out by the pool.

Copyright 2009 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com