The Homeless Laundry Thief

This week, I'm afraid homeless people are going to steal my clean clothes.

Why, yes, this is an irrational fear, and yes, I do have an overactive imagination, but there's always some reasoning behind my insanity. Although sometimes minimal. And there's "reason" to this as well.

I live in an apartment complex with an open laundry room. By open, I mean that it doesn't lock, so anyone can get in. And it's also not attached to my building, so I have to walk across the frozen pond that is my parking lot to get to it. I think most laundry rooms that belong to Four Horizon Realty function this way, but because mine is located next to a probation center, I tend to think the worse of it. No offense, laundry room. You do an okay 75 cent wash.

Yet, there's a large utility closet in the laundry room that I like to open every time I do my laundry because I have realized it is big enough for a grown person to sleep in and I've seen enough slasher films to always consider checking it before I decide to be like the movies and turn the lights off and refuse to look up from my basket of clothing as some psycho maniac comes at me with a meat cleaver. I only find a broom and a few lint balls. But the thought is still there.

A few weeks ago, my paranoia got worse when I saw a strange lady with matted hair and several layers of clothing come out of the laundry room pushing a shopping cart of clothes wrapped in a tattered black garbage bag. At least, I hope they were clothes. And, of course, my first thought was, "The homeless have found out about the warm, elegant "Hotel Utility Closet!"

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I can see it now: I'm sitting in the utility closet, looking out to the rest of the laundry room through the white vent slats on the door, waiting for someone with my size to come in to do their laundry. Footsteps approach. I see red converse shoes crowding around a mound of dirty outfits. "What size shoes are those?" I wonder as I try to judge by the shoes whether I can fit into the shirt. I hear quarters clank and the door shut behind them. Cautiously, I peek out to discover the laundress was a size ten. Shit. Why won't someone with a size five do their laundry today?

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Smiling to myself and my irrational thoughts, I look at the utility door knowing no one is going to pop out and steal my clothing. But, I still take a mental tally of what I put in and what I took out.

Somehow, a few socks are always missing. Perhaps?