USC–Freshman Percy Whittingham was shocked this morning to find his overflowing laundry bin still waiting aromatically in the corner of his dorm room. Climbing over the mountain of khaki, Whittingham grimaced at his closet with almost more hangers than clothing.
“I don’t know what’s taking these maids so long,” grumbled Whittingham, “I only have so many polo shirts left.”
Whittingham slipped on his Top-Siders and ran into the hall. He whistled at the nearby janitor pushing a mop bucket and handed him a Jackson, along with a slap on the back and a firm, meaningful handshake. “Thanks champ,” said Whittingham.
The janitor tucked the twenty in his breast pocket, shrugged, and continued down the hallway.
Assured that the extra tip would do the trick, Whittingham sauntered back to his room, kicked up his feet, and laced his fingers behind his head.
“I haven’t had service this bad since the doorman downstairs forgot to take my bags, and asked me for a valid ID,” Whittingham mused.
Down to his last pair of shorts, Whittingham decided to “do the damn laundry [himself],” prompting a quiet titter from his roommate, Carl. He then marched his basket a few doors down to the laundry room. Disoriented by the unfamiliar array of washing choices, he jammed all the clothes in the machine and forced the door shut.
Whittingham patted himself on the back for a job well done and strutted back into his bedroom assuming Javier, or Pedro, or whatever the janitor’s name was, would take care of the rest.