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e had opened the beer, and the
inevitable happened. We missed the handoff on the towel, and it started to
fall. We both reached to catch it, and he tipped the beer a little too far.
I wound up with the better part of a can of Budweiser poured over my head.
I don't like beer to begin with, and I certainly don't like it dripping down
my face and the back of my neck.
I screamed at him. This last frustration was the absolute last straw,
and I told him exactly what sort of clumsy, brain-damaged idiot I thought he
was. He took it calmly and waited for me to run down. When I ran out of
things to call him, he just said "Would you take some of that back if I
offered to run your clothes through the washer while you take a shower?"
What can you say to an offer like that except yes? I couldn't think of
any other way to answer him. I borrowed the phone to call my boss and tell
him I was going straight home, and that I'd bring in the last delivery's
money when I came in the next day, and then followed my host down the hall to
the visitor's bathroom.
"Just dump your clothes outside the door, and I'll run 'em downstairs,"
he said. "When they're dry, I'll hook 'em on the outsid
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