Laundry wasn't exactly a poor person thing. For Chris, he didn't usually consider what defined someone as poor or not. Though to say he didn't pay attention to price, in general, was true. He bought things, because he wanted them, and had never truly had to worry about money. It had never quite clicked that other people didn't. But laundry - doing it yourself - had always seemed like something people like him didn't do. He'd been the guy who had a maid in many homes and had a dry-cleaner do everything. But after a week at Marchen Heights, he found a problem: no clean underwear. That alone merited a load of laundry. The problem was working the machines.
He'd found soap and softener (which sounded good) in a dispender sort of thing, and digging around found enough coins for that and a load. He shoved everything in, not caring about it - going out to grab lunch, from the chinese place around the corner - before he'd come back. He still had it in his bags, figuring he'd pretend to be normal (and use the excuse to get out of his apartment). Egg rolls to munch on and an adapted version of the Prose Edda. All around awesome in his book. Or he would've settled on the bench, if someone else wasn't there.
A bit more awkward then before - where he was careless with his gear - he bit his lip, until he was greeted cheerfully. It eased the momentary lapse, and his hands fell slightly. He could deal with friendliness - liked it. Even if he could hear a certain lawyer yelling at him from a thousand miles away. "No, don't think so. I'm Chris, up on the tenth floor. Nice to meet you." And he meant it, when he said it. He sort of moved over to a bench, plopping the greasy bags down beside him, before fishing an egg roll out. He gestured first to the laundry, asking an obvious question, "Laundry day for you too?" And then, a different sort of reprimand - rather from a dead woman, he shifted on the bench, folding his legs, and handing the egg roll out. "Want one?"