Today is laundry day.
Laundry day means I carry a basket of dirty clothes down the stairs, enter the laundry room, put the laundry in the pay washer and dryer, then carry them back up. It’s very easy.
However, today as I approached the laundry room, there was a note tacked to the door: “Please do not lock the laundry room door.” Signed by the manager. Well, that’s easy enough, it’s never locked anyway. I reach out to turn the knob.
It’s locked.
No big deal, here, either. I have a laundry key. But I hesitate when I put the key in the lock. You see, there is an elderly fellow who lives in a room in the back of the laundry room, and he’s been known to be very, very cranky. He has yelled at people for (seemingly) no reason, screamed at them for not using the right storage locker (I once sat stunned on my little “patio” dealie as he bawled out one of the upstairs neighbours, though they kept apologising and saying they didn’t know the empty locker was his, and he chewed this poor person’s ear off for half an hour, yelling about respect and his rights - maybe there was something more to it, maybe there was a legitimate reason and this was the straw that broke the camel’s back - but I’m not a fan of yelling and screaming, and so I crept quietly back inside on that day, lest he turn on me). He always seems to be arguing with everyone, about everything.
So, I stand there with the key in the lock… then turn it. I have a key, after all, and I’m going to use it. Maybe he locked the door to be contrary, but I have laundry to do. My husband is nearly out of clean workshirts, and grumbled something about being almost out of clean underwear this morning. And so, with my chin up and a sense of duty, I open the door.
So far, so good. I smell smoke in the air, cigarette smoke, and I hear the clinking of bottles. Liquor bottles? Maybe. At two in the afternoon? Perhaps. Maybe that would explain his crankiness. I take a deep breath, choke a little, and walk to the washing machine, and begin depositing my clothes as quietly as I can.
You see, I am a bit of an agoraphobe. Being outside startles me a little, and I feel out of my element. I feel like a walking target. A target for what, you ask? I don’t know, myself. Arrows? Rotten fruit? Roses would be nice. I don’t know why I am this way, and I wish I wasn’t. And so I try hard. Every day, I walk outside, even if it’s only for a little bit. I decided today I would be brave. If I had to confront the cranky old man, I would do so. I would stand tall.
I had it all planned out in my head as I silently filled the washer. A woman’s voice came from inside his apartment, and he cursed at her. Something broke. Yelling ensued. I quickly fed my quarters into the machine and slammed it shut, and hurried the hell upstairs.
Once safely behind my own closed door, I felt relief. Then, immediately, was angry at myself for feeling relieved. They hadn’t bothered me! They hadn’t spoken to me! It was their business what was going on down there, and I was wrong to have listened or given it a second thought. For shame, Stasia! I thought to myself. You fool.
Half an hour later, I had to run back down to the laundry room to move the laundry from the washer to the dryer. I swallowed hard and marched myself down those steps. The door was still unlocked. I slipped inside and quickly began moving the wet laundry into the dryer.
“GODDAMNIT!” came the yell from the door. “The next person I see is going to get their ass kicked!” The old man rumbled. My hands shook as I moved faster. I think I was a little bunny rabbit in a past life*, or something. If my nose could twitch and my legs were longer and stronger, I would have hopped the hell away.
“I will lock that door when I damn well please!” The old man howled from behind his door. The woman was saying something to him in a calmer voice, but he began to yell at her. I shoved my quarters into the slot and started the machine, and hop, hop, hop! Away I went, fast as lightening, up the stairs and back into my apartment. My ears perked up as I heard some banging around downstairs, and a door slamming shut. I sat quietly on my own living room sofa.
Footsteps coming up the stairs. I heard the old man growling something. Horrified, I heard the hurried steps come to a halt outside my apartment door.
The screen door opened. I stood up.
Someone began knocking hard on my door. Almost pounding, as if they were using their fist to knock instead of their knuckles. This wasn’t a polite rapping. This wasn’t a friendly, neighbourly visit.
My heart beat faster, and I suddenly realised I was snarling. Rabbit in a past life or not, in this life, nobody’s going to make me feel threatened in my own home, for doing my own laundry, in the apartment’s own laundry room! I have a key! I have a right to clean clothes! My husband needs clean underwear! And goddamned if anyone’s going to come to my door and threaten me about unlocking the laundry room door that I have a key to!
I march over to the door, snarl intact, and yank it open. In my over-brave state, I throw the door wide open, stand akimbo, lean my face out the door and yell, “WHAT DO YOU WANT?!”
I wince as I have a large box shoved toward my face, with a little electronic doo-hickey on top. The UPS man is standing there, looking a little stunned, and he stutters, “Could you please sign here?”
I shrink back down to my normal size, then continue shrinking until I’m about two inches tall. “[sub]Okay[/sub]” I say meekly, in the voice of a churchmouse.
It’s the package I ordered about a week and a half ago.
The UPS man touches his cap and takes off quickly. I stand in my doorway, holding my package. I take it back inside and place it on the counter, sighing.
My epiphany: People aren’t out to get me.
Imagine that.
Epilogue: I just went downstairs to retrieve the finished laundry. While coming upstairs with my basket, the old man walked past me. I smiled at him. He smiled back.
~sigh.
-
- I do not actually believe this. It was just fun to say.