Plaidophile

So, my old apartment, which I'm almost done moving out of, used to be a retirement home. When they opened it up to the general public, a lot of retirees decided they liked it and stayed, even though there were no longer any assisted living facilities. So many times there'd be some pretty surreal situations, like heavily-pierced hipsters chatting with sweet old ladies about politics, or people with advanced senile dementia talking to nobody in the lobby.

Last night I was moving the last of my area rugs out.

I loaded it onto my cart and took it into the service elevator. When the elevator got to my destination floor, there was a little old lady standing in front of it, blocking my exit.

"Is that for Washer Boulevard?" she asked.

"No, it's mine," I said, and tried to exit the elevator while it was starting to beep at me to hurry up (because of course it's totally reasonable to expect that if it's taken more than 15 seconds to unload a service elevator, it's time to start forcefully closing the doors).

"Washer Boulevard?"

I figured I was just mishearing her name, and she was just waiting for a delivery person to arrive with a rug for her. "No, it's mine. I'm moving out, to Ballard."

"Congratulations. But is it for Washer Boulevard?"

By this point I was trying very hard to get the rug out of the elevator without knocking her over, and was almost entirely in the hallway.

"No, this is mine."

"WASHER BOULEVARD! WASHER BOULEVARD!" she said, raising her voice.

I started to move away more quickly.

"Washer Boulevard?" she plaintively whispered.

"No, sorry!" I called out, heading to the garage as fast as I could.

When I got back to the elevators she was gone.