Is that a gun in your laundry basket?

Given the email response to yesterday's post, I see that not everyone knows the infamous gun in the laundromat story. If you already know the story, feel free to skip today's entry, but I might tell a slightly different version than the one you know -- these stories tend to evolve over time.

Regardless, here's the tale one reader has dubbed her "all time favorite" of my many weirdo stories.

It all started when I first moved to Tuscaloosa (insert eerie flashback music here). Very soon after arriving in T-town I discovered that I needed to do laundry. This presented a problem in that laundromats are kind of like barber shops -- you pick one and stick with it. Yes, the basics are the same, but each establishment has its own atmosphere and clientele, so you don't bounce around. Anyway, I didn't have a regular laundromat, so I started looking around for one.

Fortunately there was one really close to my apartment and, as a bonus, it appeared to be relatively modern and clean, so I gave it a shot (poor word choice, given what followed). One afternoon I bit the bullet (another bad pun) and went to do laundry. It all started innocently enough. I lugged in my big bag of clothes, picked out a washer or two (not 10 like someone I knew in college), and sat down to wait. Very quickly I spotted a talker -- an older guy with lots of laundry, roaming from person-to-person just dying to get into a meaty conversation with some random stranger. The problem was, I knew the outcome would not be random. I KNEW he'd zero in on me if I didn't act quickly and decisively. I should have fled with great haste, but instead I tried to hide behind an abandoned section of newspaper I found next to my chair.

I don't remember what section it was (sports, business, ...), but I read every word on every page. My diversionary tactic worked for a while and I even managed to transfer my clothes from washer to dryer and get back to my paper without making contact. Then it was time to remove the clothes from the dryer. Hindsight being what it is, I should have stuffed my clothes into my laundry bag and beat a hasty retreat, but I lingered to fold my clothes. That was my critical mistake.

As I was folding, the talker pounced. He sidled up to me (trust me, he really did sidle) and threw out his opening line. It probably was something like, "Boy, don't you hate laundry day?" I had to respond with something like, "Yeah," and my fate was sealed. He then told me how he worked heavy construction all around the world and then he asked me about myself. I was hoping to scare him off by telling him I'd just started grad school in economics. Unfortunately this did not scare him off; it encouraged him. He had an abiding interest in economics and, in fact, he often dropped by the university to talk to one of the professors over there. He asked me if I knew that professor and, as luck would have it, I'd just been assigned to work for Dr. Formby. Well when the talker heard this, he and I passed from strangers in a laundromat to dear friends. What follows is as accurate a transcription of the ensuing conversation as I can muster years later.

Talker: You know John Formby?
Me: Yes, I've just been assigned to work for him as a teaching assistant.
Talker: Well, I don't show this to many people, but since you know John Formby ...

At this point he proceeded to draw a six-shot revolver out of the bib pocket of his overalls and hand it over to me! Gun safety being paramount, he first removed the bullets. But the point is, HE PULLED A GUN OUT OF HIS OVERALLS AND HANDED IT TO ME!!!

Keep in mind, this was a laundromat full of people and this guy was waving a pistol around and then implicating me in his craziness by handing me the gun! What does one do when a stranger hands him a gun in a laundromat? I'm not sure what one does, but I felt I had not choice but to take the gun. It just seemed rude (and potentially dangerous) to spurn his gesture of friendship. I politely looked it over and said, "Hmm, that's a nice one." Needless to say, I didn't feel the need to take that much time folding the rest of my laundry. At the least, someone could have called the cops on us. At worst, someone could have taken us out.

Mind you, this occurred the first week I was living in Tuscaloosa. I should have known that was not a good omen.

So, now you all know the gun in the laundromat story. Though I might have added some color to the story, I promise I have not in any way exaggerated the factual basis of the tale. The saddest part is, I was not surprised by this. Trust me; I have a weirdo magnet.