I had one uneventful trip to the Creepermat, which made me sad. I went armed with my nice journal and a good pen and came out empty handed. It's a good thing I decided to go again two days later, because something happened that made me ponder what planet I was on for a moment.
It was snowing fairly hard on this particular day, so I actually didn't expect there to be many people hanging out at the Creepermat. I was pleasantly surprised when I pulled into a lot with 6 cars filling the slushy spaces.
A large woman carrying a large basket followed me in the door, basically pushing me through as if she were scrambling to get to the washers before me.
I hauled my blankets and sheets inside, threw them into some washers, and sat down to begin my observations. There was an interesting collection of specimens occupying the space at the Creepermat this day.
Sitting in two of the four seats available to Creepermat patrons (which has always cracked me up, because you'd figure a Creepermat stocked with 33 washing machines, 16 dryers, and 6 industrial sized dryers located in an area where the next nearest Creepermat is a 20 minute drive would be a little more accommodating) were two whispering younger guys of the redneck variety.
The guy on the left, whose scowl looked to be permanently embedded into his features, kept glancing my way. A wiry man with a molestache and a hairline receded from years of trying to fight a trucker cap off of his head isn't exactly my type of fellow. Especially not one wearing straight leg jeans. And I'm not talking about those (nearly as hideous) in style variety that the scene kids wear; I'm talking about bought-from-Kmart Lee straight leg nuthuggers that only hillbillies, construction workers, and old moms wear.
His companion's shirt was the first thing to catch my eye as I looked him over; it was your standard oversized button-up blue work type shirt with an American flag sewed onto the right breast pocket. He had hair, so I doubt he wears hats.
A dark-skinned gentleman and a cute brunette, who I am going to assume was his girlfriend based on their interactions, occupied the soft water washing machines. Both, when not conversing with each other, looked very focused on getting their laundry done, like it was a mission handed down by an Army general.
A petite redhead decked out in a sweatsuit and crocs ventured in not long after I got my clothes in the washer. Nothing eventful happened for about a half hour.
Right as I was putting my things into one of the industrial dryers, Crocs girl approaches Cute Brunette. Cute Brunette is folding clothes and sorting them into stacks. Crocs girl picks up a pair of her panties, holds them up, and says "Wow, these are really cute! Where did you get them?" without looking offended, or disgusted, Cute Brunette replies "Oh I found them on this website online!" and they begin to discuss buying lingerie online.
I don't know what planet these girls are from, but if some stranger, no matter how cute or harmless, approached me and picked up a pair of my underwear, I wouldn't even give them a chance to speak before saying something to the effect of "What the fuck is wrong with you? PUT MY UNDERWEAR DOWN!" What is going through your mind when you walk up to a stranger and touch one of their most personal possessions without even asking? And it's UNDERWEAR. Underwear hang out by you crotch ALL DAY. I don't care if they were just washed or if they were washed 27 times in a row, there is just nothing right about that.
American Flag guy spent nearly the whole 45 minutes it took for his clothes to dry staring into the dryer, watching the clothes tumble. I was guessing he was either high or easily amused. Large lady put her clothes in a dryer that didn't work. I knew it didn't work, but I didn't tell her. She pushed me in the door, and I'm only a step above childish in the revenge department when I'm bored.
I collected my items from the dryer, packed up my things, and drove home pondering the 13 different things I would have said had that girl picked up MY underwear.