Breakfast made it's way to my large intestine around 2:48 pm. As I toward the bathroom to relieve myself, only a few things crossed my mind. I wished for a clean and empty stall, a full roll of toilet paper, and hoped a kind soul had left something in the john for my reading enjoyment. I rounded Annette's desk, walked down the hallway, and entered the second door on the left.
"Men's Room", the sign said. Indeed, I am a man, I have a penis and testicles, and the urge to purge. This was my stop. As I entered, it seemed the cleaning lady, Lupe, had just finished up. The bathroom was spotless and perfect, with just a hint of chlorine in the air to sting my nose, and the slight, wafting scent of Lupe's sweet scent, fruity perfume dashed with a hint of frijoles. All three stalls were open and pristine. I made my way to furthest one.
Now, friends, at this point I considered the man rules. You may not know this, but we men have very important rules and courtesies when it comes to the bathroom. For example, you never, ever, ever look at another man's junk while in the urinal. Actually, this shouldn't even be considered, because Men's Bathroom rule number one is to take the furthest stall or urinal away from the exit. There should never be a time when you take a leak at the neighboring urinal, because Men's Bathroom rule numero dos states that if a urinal is taken, you use the next one over.
And Men's Bathroom rule number three? Unless you're carrying on a conversation with someone before you enter the bathroom, absolutely NO talking. Ever.
I was happy with my stall. There was indeed a full roll of toilet paper. The seat was up, having recently been cleaned. All signs of black curlies were negative. And, dear lord, thank you, there was the stocks section of today's paper.
After that, it was business as usual. I'm not going to get into details, friends, but something happened as I was scanning the blue chips section. The door to the bathroom opened, and someone entered.
It took only a few moments for the nameless, faceless perpetrator to find his target. It seemed this sick individual's breakfast had also hit him. The footsteps led to my direction, and the bastard broke Men's Bathroom rule number two. He entered the stall next to mine.
I was furious. I was upset. I was confused. 'Doesn't this guy know to take the stall furthest away from me?', I questioned myself. 'Doesn't he know proper etiquette? Now that we're sitting and shitting next to each other, does that make me...gay?' The man had hurt my feelings. I now sat hopeless, unable to have a pleasant bowel movement. From the shuffling of his feet, he decided that, yes, his was the stall to crap in. I almost wanted to say something, but for fear of breaking Men's Bathroom rule number three, decided in good judgment against doing so. And then it happened.
"Hey." The man's deep baritone voice and slight southern drawl, which I immediately recognized as a black man's voice, boomed and echoed through the stall like a fart in the Vatican. It was contemptible. It was outrageous. It was wholly evil. He had broken two Men's Bathroom rules in just under a minute.
I sat frozen in terror as thoughts raced through my brain, synapses firing at nanoseconds. Do I respond? Would it be rude to not carry on a conversation? He's black, maybe he's been in prison, do they do this kind of thing in the pen? What if I piss him off by not talking to him? What if he sees I'm a frail white man? Will he try to have his way with me? I prayed to God to let this be a fluke.
So, I did what any rational individual would do: I cleared my throat. It was basically the verbal equivalent of a head nod, and I did not have to respond any more than that.
"What's up?" His voice boomed again. My brow was beading with sweat. I was scared. I was nervous. I was on the verge of tears. Why does he want a conversation buddy? Will I have to wipe him when he's done? What if I know this guy? Will I be able to look him in the eyes after this? He probably wants to take advantage of me. Black prison guy with big dick fucks small white guy with anal hymen in bathroom stall. I was scared for my life.
I responded in my best disgusted voice. "Taking a shit, man. That's why I'm here. Nothing else." Why the FUCK is he talking to me? Maybe he would get the hint now to stop talking. I have to be the alpha-male here, now. I have to be in charge. I can't show weakness. I wanted my mommy.
"How ya doin'?" He wanted a conversation? I'll give him conversation. I'll make myself undesirable so he won't think twice about leaving me alone.
"Honestly, not too good. My stocks are down, I have horrid diarrhea, and my hemorrhoids are killing me, itching like crazy. Also, my penis is small and my balls get in the way of my rectum sometimes." That should do it. No more talk. I'll wait until he finishes, which should be soon, and then wait another five minutes, and then leave. He won't even know who it was in here. Yay me!
He paused for a moment before speaking again.
"Mm-hmm. Yeah, well, whatcha doin' tonight?" I swallowed hard. This sick fuck. Sick, sick, sick fuck. Prison must be bad if he still wants to talk after what I just told him. I sensed now that he was a hardened con, probably spending years in and out of the joint. I felt sorry for him. Should I be nice now? Maybe he didn't know the Men's Bathroom rules. They have piss-troughs in prison, you know. He wanted to know what I'm doing tonight...well, having dinner. Maybe I should invite him? But what afterwards? I don't want to be his bitch! Sure, I'm flattered, maybe even curious, but my answer is no. I should love my neighbor, Jesus says. Well, this guy's it, I guess.
"Well, my wife and I are having dinner, so you're welcome to join us. Hell, we could even go out for beers after work, if you want. I know this great place that keeps Schlitt's on tap, if you can believe it. You'd like it, I bet." I am a good Samaritan. I am nice. Maybe he won't rape me if we're friends.
Once more, his voice echoed. "Hey, I got some asshole in the stall next to me trying to carry on a conversation; I'm on my cell, I'll give you a call back."
"Men's Room", the sign said. Indeed, I am a man, I have a penis and testicles, and the urge to purge. This was my stop. As I entered, it seemed the cleaning lady, Lupe, had just finished up. The bathroom was spotless and perfect, with just a hint of chlorine in the air to sting my nose, and the slight, wafting scent of Lupe's sweet scent, fruity perfume dashed with a hint of frijoles. All three stalls were open and pristine. I made my way to furthest one.
Now, friends, at this point I considered the man rules. You may not know this, but we men have very important rules and courtesies when it comes to the bathroom. For example, you never, ever, ever look at another man's junk while in the urinal. Actually, this shouldn't even be considered, because Men's Bathroom rule number one is to take the furthest stall or urinal away from the exit. There should never be a time when you take a leak at the neighboring urinal, because Men's Bathroom rule numero dos states that if a urinal is taken, you use the next one over.
And Men's Bathroom rule number three? Unless you're carrying on a conversation with someone before you enter the bathroom, absolutely NO talking. Ever.
I was happy with my stall. There was indeed a full roll of toilet paper. The seat was up, having recently been cleaned. All signs of black curlies were negative. And, dear lord, thank you, there was the stocks section of today's paper.
After that, it was business as usual. I'm not going to get into details, friends, but something happened as I was scanning the blue chips section. The door to the bathroom opened, and someone entered.
It took only a few moments for the nameless, faceless perpetrator to find his target. It seemed this sick individual's breakfast had also hit him. The footsteps led to my direction, and the bastard broke Men's Bathroom rule number two. He entered the stall next to mine.
I was furious. I was upset. I was confused. 'Doesn't this guy know to take the stall furthest away from me?', I questioned myself. 'Doesn't he know proper etiquette? Now that we're sitting and shitting next to each other, does that make me...gay?' The man had hurt my feelings. I now sat hopeless, unable to have a pleasant bowel movement. From the shuffling of his feet, he decided that, yes, his was the stall to crap in. I almost wanted to say something, but for fear of breaking Men's Bathroom rule number three, decided in good judgment against doing so. And then it happened.
"Hey." The man's deep baritone voice and slight southern drawl, which I immediately recognized as a black man's voice, boomed and echoed through the stall like a fart in the Vatican. It was contemptible. It was outrageous. It was wholly evil. He had broken two Men's Bathroom rules in just under a minute.
I sat frozen in terror as thoughts raced through my brain, synapses firing at nanoseconds. Do I respond? Would it be rude to not carry on a conversation? He's black, maybe he's been in prison, do they do this kind of thing in the pen? What if I piss him off by not talking to him? What if he sees I'm a frail white man? Will he try to have his way with me? I prayed to God to let this be a fluke.
So, I did what any rational individual would do: I cleared my throat. It was basically the verbal equivalent of a head nod, and I did not have to respond any more than that.
"What's up?" His voice boomed again. My brow was beading with sweat. I was scared. I was nervous. I was on the verge of tears. Why does he want a conversation buddy? Will I have to wipe him when he's done? What if I know this guy? Will I be able to look him in the eyes after this? He probably wants to take advantage of me. Black prison guy with big dick fucks small white guy with anal hymen in bathroom stall. I was scared for my life.
I responded in my best disgusted voice. "Taking a shit, man. That's why I'm here. Nothing else." Why the FUCK is he talking to me? Maybe he would get the hint now to stop talking. I have to be the alpha-male here, now. I have to be in charge. I can't show weakness. I wanted my mommy.
"How ya doin'?" He wanted a conversation? I'll give him conversation. I'll make myself undesirable so he won't think twice about leaving me alone.
"Honestly, not too good. My stocks are down, I have horrid diarrhea, and my hemorrhoids are killing me, itching like crazy. Also, my penis is small and my balls get in the way of my rectum sometimes." That should do it. No more talk. I'll wait until he finishes, which should be soon, and then wait another five minutes, and then leave. He won't even know who it was in here. Yay me!
He paused for a moment before speaking again.
"Mm-hmm. Yeah, well, whatcha doin' tonight?" I swallowed hard. This sick fuck. Sick, sick, sick fuck. Prison must be bad if he still wants to talk after what I just told him. I sensed now that he was a hardened con, probably spending years in and out of the joint. I felt sorry for him. Should I be nice now? Maybe he didn't know the Men's Bathroom rules. They have piss-troughs in prison, you know. He wanted to know what I'm doing tonight...well, having dinner. Maybe I should invite him? But what afterwards? I don't want to be his bitch! Sure, I'm flattered, maybe even curious, but my answer is no. I should love my neighbor, Jesus says. Well, this guy's it, I guess.
"Well, my wife and I are having dinner, so you're welcome to join us. Hell, we could even go out for beers after work, if you want. I know this great place that keeps Schlitt's on tap, if you can believe it. You'd like it, I bet." I am a good Samaritan. I am nice. Maybe he won't rape me if we're friends.
Once more, his voice echoed. "Hey, I got some asshole in the stall next to me trying to carry on a conversation; I'm on my cell, I'll give you a call back."
