I didn’t want to talk to him.
In any other situation, at any other time, I wouldn’t have. I didn’t know him, he didn’t know me and neither of us ever expected to meet again in the future. But since I was standing behind him while waiting to use the men’s room at the restaurant, and I had made the mistake of making eye contact, manly etiquette demanded at least a token attempt at conversation.
Heaving a mighty sigh in my mind, I fired the first salvo.
“Hot day.”
“Yep.”
“Mmm, mmm.”
And that should have been it. We should have just looked at each other for an awkward moment and then gone about our pathetic lives as if that conversation had never happened. But, in what I can only assume was a desperate attempt to escape from my presence, he smiled at me, walked over to the bathroom door and jiggled the handle!
What the…?
I was flabbergasted. Apparently, even though I had only spoken two words to him thus far, he had already determined that I was so terminally boring that he needed to get away from me or he would die. He was even willing to disturb whoever was in the bathroom to do it. I’m surprised he didn’t begin banging on the door and shouting, “Hurry up! I’ve got to go peepee and this guy scares me!”
His uncouth actions demanded a response.
“Been waiting long?”
“A couple of minutes now.”
“Gotta go pretty bad, huh?”
“Oh… uh, yeah.”
At that point, just as I was ready to get all Columbo on his ass, the door opened and a young female came out of the bathroom. Remember, this was a bathroom in a nice restaurant and even though I know that sometimes it’s necessary to cross gender lines in public facilities, neither of us were prepared to see a girl come out of the men’s room when the women’s room was right next door.
Especially when it was vacant and we were waiting in line.
As she walked past the guy ahead of me, I saw a look of repulsion cross his face. I remember thinking to myself that the women’s room might have been occupied earlier and that just because she was using the men’s room was no reason for this guy to act that way. I mean, it might be a social faux pas, but that certainly wasn’t any reason to look at her as if she were Quasimodo’s ugly step-sister.
At least, that’s what I thought until the smell hit me.
Now, I guess on some intellectual level I’ve always understood that women must have smelly poo. And sometimes, when they’re not feeling well or something, I’m sure their poo can smell as bad as mine after a night of eating my infamous Nuclear Tacos of Gastrointestinal Destruction. But physically and emotionally, I was completely unprepared for the nasal assault that emanated from this poor woman as she passed me in that narrow corridor. My gag reflex was almost overpowering and it was only by reaching down into the depths of my soul that I found the inner strength to hold back my fast-rising, half digested breakfast.
Even still, when I swallowed I could taste eggs.
When I thought it was safe to breath again, I turned back towards the bathroom to wait my turn and found the guy standing in the open doorway. By the slump in his shoulders I could tell he was distraught and defeated by whatever awaited him within. After a moment or two of watching him just stand there I had to know what was holding him back. Looking over his shoulder into the bathroom I let out a low whistle.
“Damn.” I said in disgusted awe, “That is just foul.”
“Yeah,” he replied with revulsion. “I can’t believe she didn’t flush.”
I thought about that for a moment.
“Dude, you jiggled the handle.”
“Oh. Son of a bitch.”
With that, he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and entered the room. I’ll bet that he never jiggles the handle again for the rest of his life.
I know I won’t.
