By D. BOB SAUER
I’m almost certain we met on a Wednesday.
Yep, it was definitely a Wednesday because I remember thinking to myself how ironic it was that she
was smoking Camels on hump day. We were the only people in the Laundromat at the time, but come
on, it’s still a public place and you’re not supposed to smoke. And she didn’t smoke just one or two
either. She must have puffed eight or 10 in less than a half hour. She’d finish one, immediately tap another
from the pack and fire it up with a cherry-red Bic lighter turned all the way up to flamethrower. When
each butt was down to a smoldering nub, she’d flick it as hard as she could against a washing machine
as if she was either pissed off, pissed up, or both.
Even though Josephine Camel was on the other end of a large room, the whole place reeked from the thick,
putrid smoke, and my newly laundered clothes were losing their spring-like freshness. I was almost done
folding my socks and rolling up my undies, or was I folding undies and rolling socks? I forget, anyway, my
emotional undies were getting into a bundle over all this stupid smoke.
Now, I’m a laid-back guy who generally keeps to himself but my eyes were
starting to burn from the smoky stench, so I sauntered over to Ms. Chimney to ask her to cool it with
the ’grets, at least until my clothes were folded.
As I approached her through the carcinogenic haze, I could see her slumped inside a cheap plastic chair
with her legs straight up resting over the back of the next one. She was backlit from the window and as I
got closer, I could see in breath-taking detail every curve, dip and bulge of her legs, thighs, hips, waist and
chest through a paper-thin sundress. Her curves were ample and perfect, and to literally top it off, I swear
I’ve never seen a prettier face up that close. By the time I was standing in front of her I had
Completely forgotten why I was there.
“ ‘Sup?” she asked as she flung a Camel roach past my head.
I started to stammer like a dip-shit schoolboy, “I uh- uh- uh- uh- just wanted to come over and say hi”.
“Hi yourself––want a heater?” she said, pulling another Camel out of the pack.
“Nah, trying to quit,” I said with a fake chuckle.
“Well, I’m Ashley,” she added quickly. “But people call me Ashtray––don’t know why,” she said,
“I’m D. Bob and just in case you’re wondering the D. stands for “Dangerous.”
“I wasn’t wondering, but Dangerous, huh? You take a lot of risks, do you?” she said with an odd
“No, not really. It’s just that Dangerous Bob has a better ring to it than Chlamydia Bob,” I joked, trying to
get that gorgeous face to crack a smile.
She put her feet on the ground and said, “That’s not funny, you know. It took me a year and a half to
get rid of that crap and I got it from some reckless creep like you. And what about these?” She reached
down, grabbed the hem of her dress and pulled it up to her face.
Her chest right down to her lap area was covered with chancres, warts, boils, and blisters. “You think
these are funny too, Mr. Comedian?” she screamed.
“I’ll admit I was shocked and pleasantly disgusted at the sight, yet at the same time, her pretty face
behind the shear dress material looked magically angelic, as if through a veil. “Sorry,” I said, “I was
“Yeah, you just, you just––who in the hell are you to come over here and insult me like that?” she said,
standing up, her voice screeching and going up one octave and at least 40 decibels.
I tried to speak, but frankly I was frozen with confused fear that anyone with such a pretty face could go
so psycho. After a full-term pregnant pause, I finally tried to weasel my way out of this freaky mess. “You
looked lonely, that’s all, I thought I would cheer you up.”
“Cheer me up? By what, poking fun at my STD’s?”
Even with her face spiraling into a twisted fuming rage, there was something captivating about her high
Cheekbones, thick bottom lip, and those over-sized green eyes that made me step back and take in
another moment of her tortured beauty.
That’s when she grabbed a box of detergent and pushed me to the floor. “Cheer me up? Cheer me up?”
she shrieked as she emptied an entire box of All-Tempa-CHEER on me.
“I’ll cheer you up, scum-sucker.”
As I lay there, she hit me twice, really hard, with a cheap plastic chair then tried to set my hair on fire
with her incendiary Bic. I clumsily scrambled to my feet, bolted through the door, and ran down the
street. What in the hell was all that? I kept asking myself.
Over six hours went by before I went back to get my clothes. The Laundromat was bustling with customers
by then but luckily there was no sign of the deranged, but lovely Ashtray. Oh, and I just remembered: my
socks were folded and my undies rolled.
NEXT ISSUE: Scrubbing Bubbles? Make sure it’s consensual.