By On the occasion of our 20th anniversary
By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Alfonso Delgado
By Courtney Hamilton
By Joel Beers
By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
Illustration by Bob AulSend anonymous thanks, confessions or accusations—changing or deleting the names of the guilty and innocent—to "Hey, You!" c/o OC Weekly, P.O. Box 10788, Costa Mesa, CA 92627-0247, or e-mail us at email@example.com.
You and I met in the laundry room of our apartment complex. I just sat there reading my book, waiting for my laundry to dry.
"Are these your clothes?" you asked, indicating a load in the washing machine.
"No," I said. And then I watched you do something unbelievably bad-mannered, boorish and obnoxious: you took someone's clothes out of the washing machine, and you put them on the floor.
On the floor. Where people walk. Clean, wet clothes. Dirty floor.
I gave you my best look of astonishment, and you said, "Everyone does it."
Everyone? Where were you raised? Because I never want to go there.
To paraphrase my mom, let me tell you, if everyone jumped into a washing machine, I hope that you would follow them because I would be the first to slam quarters into the machine.
Speaking of mom: I don't even let her touch my clothes. Therefore, I never, ever want to catch you with your dirty paws on my underwear.