There is a strange old man who hangs around my building sometimes. I haven't yet worked out when he turns up, but twice now, I've found him in the building — oddly enough, only on my laundry nights.
The first time I saw him was when I'd just got home from work. He was lounging in one of the armchairs in the lobby, seemingly talking to himself, though he had this way of glaring at everyone who walked past him as if he was actually speaking to each person intensely. He was saying one sentence over and over again, stumbling over syllables as he did. The sentence went something like: "my sister has a ... ... ... Ferrari ... ... ... ." My sister has a ... ... ... Ferrari ... ... ... my sister has a ... ... ... Ferrari ... ... my sister has a ... ... .
I thought him odd but harmless, and wondered if he'd lived here.
When I made a trip down to the ground floor laundry to put my clothes in the dryer, the lift stopped at the 8th floor and, to my horror, the old man walked in. He glared at me with his fishy-looking eyes and flashed me a maniacal grin, showing all his yellow teeth. "You are a very nice person," he said. "Thank you," I said, trying to look calm and composed. Then he mumbled something I couldn't make sense of. "Okay," I said. He began to laugh.
When we reached the ground floor, he trundled out of the lift and made for one of the armchairs once more.
The second time I saw him was earlier this week. Monday, if I recall correctly. I got home and found a tallish man standing just outside the door, as if he was waiting for someone to open it. And what do you do when someone appears to be waiting for the door to be opened? You open it, and let him in. I fished out my keys, opened the door, and let him in. Only when he made his way to the armchair that I realised it was the very same old man from the previous week. He was extremely well-dressed, wearing a long, expensive-looking coat and a matching hat, and he sat down in the armchair with an air of dignity, as if he were a king.
Later on, when I came down to do my laundry, he was gone. I wondered if he was again wandering around the building, but the lift did not stop between the ground floor and my floor all evening, and I did not encounter him again that night.
Perhaps I will see him again next week, though I must admit that each time the lift stops before it reaches the ground floor, I find myself expecting to see, there in the doorway, the hunched figure of the Laundry Man.
Posted by sniffles at December 03, 2003 05:23 PM