Walking Down Madison

When you get to the corner don't look at those freaks,
Keep your head down low and stay quick on your feet.
-Kirsty MacColl

I have somehow become a weirdo-magnet. In increasing numbers, all manner of odd individuals are compelled to approach me.

I'm used to this sort of thing at the local, where it's not unusual for a peaceful evening to be interrupted by the likes of Katie Stumblepants or the Pitbull. So I came to believe that it was the local itself that was the root of the problem, functioning as some sort of Bermuda Triangle where strange things just happened.

But it apparently it's me, because the weirdness has of late spread to the laundromat.

The first indication of this came several weeks ago. I was entering the laundromat, baskets of dirty clothes in hand, when I came face to face in the doorway with Happy Crazy Girl. She stopped in the door, blocking me from entering, and stared at me for a long moment. Then she announced "Well look at those big green eyes!" and darted past me into the parkinglot. I shrugged and proceeded in to do my laundry; that particular happening was easy enough to ignore.

But last night's incident was full-blown-capital-dubya-weirdness.

I stepped into the laundromat, intent on grabbing my now clean clothes out of the dryer. My eyes were immediately drawn to the older woman dancing in front of the dryers. The exact row of dryers containing my laundry. She was wearing headphones but I couldn't see any sort of walkman or mp3 player; for all I know she was dancing to some sort of strange music in her head that only she could hear.

The Dancing Queen watched me approach as I came down the row of washers. She was still gyrating in front of my dryer.

"Excuse me, " I said, "I just need to slide by you here."
"Nice night for laundry, " she said.
I nodded. "Yup," I said, "Nice night."
"Are you having fun?"

She reeked of booze. Every shake of her head, twist of her hips, and wave of her arms sent the stench of alcohol wafting at me. Now I was deliberately avoiding eye contact. I had no desire to get drawn into some sort of conversation with this person; all I wanted was to get my laundry and get the hell out.

The problem was, Dancing Queen refused to move. In fact, she was actively impeding me. We were now engaged in some sort of awkward dance, as I shuffled to one side to another, desperately trying to reach the dryer door, and she shuffled with me, boxing me out.

I head faked her. Nice juke, if I say so myself; faked right, went left, ripped open the dryer door, and began shoveling clothes into the basket. Dancing Queen responded by rubbing up against the adjacent dryer, alternately humming to herself and making noises I believe were intended to be licentious, if not sexy.

I ignored her, and out of the corner of my eye watched her wander off. By the time I finished emptying my second dryer she was gone.

I think it may be time to consider patronizing a different establishment.