fink...or opportunist?One Friday night, as I washed clothes in the laundry room of my yuppie high rise, a woman slid into the seat next to me.
"Excuse me," she said. "Are those your clothes?" She motioned toward two industrial-size washers. I shook my head, no.
We sat quietly, watching TV. The news was on.
"Would you do me a favor?" the woman said finally. I shrugged. "I'm Mrs. Johnson, and I lease apartments in this building for business clients who are in town for several weeks or months. I spent about $50,000 on those washers to clean sheets and towels."
"Uh-huh," I said.
"The only way you can use them is with a key. Someone is using them without my permission, and they're putting in regular detergent, which could ruin them." She looked around, then drew closer and continued in a hushed tone. "If you watch to see who comes down for the clothes, I'll give you three nights in one of our suites. Do your parents ever visit? They could stay free."
"So all I'd have to do," I said, intrigued, "is sit here, wait for the person to get the clothes, then describe that person to you?"
"That's it."
I looked at the floor. "Would you put that in writing?" No one ever accused me of being a sucker.
She tore a page from a newspaper and wrote her name and phone number on it. Then she scribbled "3 free nights at Johnson Suites."
Mrs. Johnson thanked me and left. I waited. After an hour, my clothes dried and folded, I gave up. I was tired, and hell, my parents could stay on my floor anytime. I went back to my apartment.
Forty-five minutes later, after a hearty meal of Velveeta & Shells, I began to wonder if the culprit had returned. I returned to the laundry room. The clothes were gone! I approached a chubby guy folding his socks. "Did you see who took the clothes from those washers?" He didn't say a word, just turned on his heels and pointed at a woman standing nearby.
I approached her slowly. She was wearing a white T-shirt and blue jeans. "Maam," I said, feeling like a henchman. "Who are you?"
She looked puzzled. When I explained why I needed to know, she pulled out a small key and stammered, "I'm Joey's wife." Joey was a maintenance guy. "Mrs. Johnson knows I have the key. Joey does jobs for her, and she lets us use the key."
I apologized for frightening her, then took the elevator upstairs with her. She got off at 3. As soon as she exited — and this, I know, may prejudice you as you decide if I'm a rat fink — I made a fist and said under my breath, "Three free nights!"
Mrs. Johnson, predictably, had not given Joey the key. She said she'd suspected him but that he had denied it on three occasions. "Any time you want those nights, you just let me know," Mrs. Johnson assured me.
I receive mixed feedback when I tell this story. One friend said I should have confiscated the key and told the woman that I wouldn't rat on her, then given the key to Mrs. Johnson. That way everybody would have been happy. Another friend (along with my mom, after I explained what I had gotten from the deal) saw nothing wrong with what I did. They reasoned that Mrs. Johnson would have caught Joey's wife eventually.
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