Scatological

There was life there; I could smell it.  And a mist of rain which I couldn’t smell.  There just wasn’t enough heat for the fragrance of wet road to rise.  I get a call, a pick up address followed by destination, requests to “drive straight to destination, no stops.”  It’s Patrick, the mentally retarded worker.  He gets in.  “Good morning, Patrick.”

“Morning,” Patrick utters.  He hugs his miniature Coleman cooler.  PATRICK is written on one side in heavy black permanent marker.  Patrick slips the requisite envelope, sealed and containing seven dollars twentyfive cents, in between books crammed in the mesh metal desk organizer in the passenger seat.  I drop him off at work, a small office and warehouse on Vermont St., which is itself no more than a row of small offices and warehouses.  It’s my third or fourth time there but still I pull in the wrong drive, a repeatedly-made mistake. 

I sat in a Schaumburg parking lot laid out in front of a plaza of stripmall, grocery store, and free-standing fast food joints.  There was life there.  I swear I could smell it.

As I’ve aged, my anxiety has spread through my body.  Now, I don’t move my bowels every day, the terror of public existence seizing my nerves and pinching me shut.  I have trouble pissing when any other dude is in the same bathroom, even if I’m housed in a lightly secured and by all accounts private stall. 

I’d built up too much though.  I put my cigarette out in a small coffee cup half-full of water, a purposeful ashtray and head into Jewel, past the Papa Nicholas coffee dispenser’s complimentary offering of a kick.  I’m relieved to find the men’s room, a private, single-toilet lavatory, is unoccupied.  I occupy it in spite of repugnance.  Bathrooms at most Jewel stores are consistently nasty.  Worse than most gas stations.  I’ve noticed that numerous Taco Bells, of all places, have clean restrooms with few unpleasant scents.  Who would think? 

An awful pop song, not the least bit catchy, loudly emits from a speaker in the ceiling, caking the walls with bullshit and pomp.  Outside, the pharmacy is full of bustling druggies, ordinary Americans, white ones, mostly, but not entirely.  Age and weight varies absurdly.  I’m sitting on the john teary-eyed and cathartically letting nature process whatever it is I’ve shoved in my face in recent days. 

The locked handle on the door rattles.  Lyrics about champagne and some products so superflous that they don’t relate to anything at all. 

“Occupied!” I say just loud enough for the person that jerked on the door to hear.

I feel like sitting there awhile and wish I’d brought a book, but now I’m without props and someone’s disturbed my peace.

45 seconds later the door jerks again, someone yanking the handle outside, as if they’d totally neglected the idea of quietly checking to see if it was even locked.  This alleged man is trying to enter the room like a dumb animal. 

“JUST A MINUTE,” I state firmly and clearly, hoping this intruder detects my annoyance.  I’m fucking really irritated.  Angry.

I start getting up 30 seconds later and use my foot to give the toilet a flush.  No response.  The handle dings impotently.  The delicate inner life of the plumbing is in crisis.  The door jerks and rattles again.  I clench my jaw, look at the idle contents in the bowl, then walk out, past a stodgy, pasty, balding prick.  No eye contact.  No verbal assault.  No warning of what I left in the men’s room. 

I was truly happy.

Sometimes the best thing for an asshole is to have to face some shit.