When I lived in downtown Las Vegas near Freemont Street, my neighbors were a lovely, lively bunch of people. My apartment was inside First United Methodist Church. I lived across the street from the police station, behind a bank and next door to a casino. Bums slept in the alley outside my door.
About the only accommodation the church didn’t have was a washing machine. I took my wash to the laundromat once per week, usually early on Saturday morning before the crowds arrived. One such Saturday I pulled into the laundromat just as the attendant unlocked the door. As I toted my stuff in he said to me, “You’ll probably be alone for an hour or so before any other customers come in. I’ll be across the street at Denny’s if you need me.” Then he left.
I carried my laundry basket to the first row of washers and started sorting clothing into machines. A man came through the door and walked to the opposite end of the row. He opened a duffle bag and shook it’s contents into the washer. Then he took off his shirt. Next his tennis shoes came off and went into the machine. His socks followed. He reached for his belt.
I started pulling clothes back out of the washing machines and returning them to my basket. I left the laundromat just as his underwear were coming off.
