I’m walking up the stairs of the local bookstore and see a girl who would be drop-dead gorgeous if she lost seven to ten pounds. She is looking at a novelty mustache that I once saw the lead singer of White Ghost Shivers wear in Waterloo Park. The mustache is much larger than any normal mustache would ever be, thus adding to its hilarity. I see her giggle, which makes me giggle and she is instantly more attractive. As I walk by, I’m careful to angle myself so that she can not get a clear view of my rear end. I have been sitting down in the coffee shop working on my computer for hours and my ass is sweating more profusely than usual due, in part, to the bottomless cup of coffee I have been sipping and the vinyl seat coverings, which do not breath. She looks at me and I try to will her to eye contact, an attempt to dissuade her eyes from inspecting my pants for coffee induced sweat stains. She looks at my ass. Of course, she does. Dammit. I should have worn jeans. My ass sweat does not show up as much when wearing jeans.
I scurry off, hoping that a quick escape will push her attention back to the novelty toys hanging on the wall. Rubber ducks sporting the clothing of popular human occupations such as fire fighter, police officer, train conductor, etc are far more interesting than the sweat accruing on my lower back and unmentionables. Why am I sweating so much!? I walk into the bathroom and immediately inspect the rear of my pants. The sink counter is high and I have to stand on my tippie toes to get a good look at my butt in the mirror. Good. No visible sweat marks. A man with long dreadlocks and a sport coat walks in and catches me looking at my own ass in the mirror. He needs to wash his hands, so I walk to a urinal and pretend to be taking a piss. Now, the dreadlock man walks up to the urinal next to me to take a piss beside me. Why on earth did he wash his hands before taking a piss!? This makes absolutely no sense.
I am standing at the urinal, not actually urinating, but pretending to urinate. There is no music in the bathroom. There was music out in the store. The Bee Gees. They were playing the Bee Gees in the store. But, in here, it is silent and I know that he can hear that I am not peeing. I wonder if he can tell that my pants are not unbuttoned? Does he think that I am a freak for standing in front of a toilet for more than thirty seconds, now, without pulling out my penis? Wait. Why is he looking at the area where my penis would be were I actually urinating? He is the freak. I am normal, just a guy, resting in front of a urinal. Using this time to ponder the meaning behind the hand-printed text on the wall.
Above the urinals someone has written, Fuck you in black ink. In blue ink, someone crossed out the you and has written Me! in it’s place. But, in red ink, someone else (or maybe the original Fuck you writer, now with a different pen) has written Ok!, thus, implying that he (or if a woman has happened to infiltrate the men’s restroom, she) is open to an arrangement where he/she would be having sex with this new restroom wall author. The meaning of the original text is completely changed, though, when a new author with what appears to be a Sharpie marker, or other felt tipped pen, has written on top of the Fuck you Me! and altered it to read Bock Me! Which, at first, makes little sense, until you run a Google search for Bock Me and then realize that this person is obviously referring to the Super Bock Appreciation Society, whose mantra and mission statement reads, “Respect and cower down to the power of the bock!” and appears to refer to a Portuguese brand of strong pale lager from the Unicer brewery which produces a range of beers under the same name.
Slightly to the right of this real world bathroom Wiki is written the word, observe and as I ponder its meaning in all of this, I realize that the dreadlock man thinks that I am trying to look at his penis and no doubt, has interpreted the sweat on my forehead, not as coffee induced perspiration, but instead, some sort of sick sexual nervousness. This man is probably the original Fuck you author and now, it is obvious, although far from the truth, that I am the Fuck Me! author and my eyes drifting towards observe are a blatant proposition for anything goes bathroom sex. Jesus. I divert my eyes and stand there, not urinating, hoping that this whole thing will blow over. Hoping that this man will leave and allow me to walk away, unscathed. If I can just escape this terrible bathroom mix-up, I’ll walk back onto the bookstore floor and find the over-sized mustache girl. Maybe, I was wrong, she doesn’t need to lose ten pounds. She probably has a winning personality that makes up in spades for any physical flaws. She’s probably one of those girls that would find a sweaty ass funny. Hilarious, even. Oh, just let me walk away from this man in a sport coat and dreadlocks and sandals. This man is wearing sandals with jeans and a sport coat. God. He has probably just come from some bathhouse orgy and is now looking for some one-on-one action.
Just my luck, here I was, only minutes away from falling in love with over-sized mustache girl and now, our life together; the couch cushion forts; the love notes hidden all over each others’ small apartments, the shared toothbrushes; the awkward sex that is alright because we are in love; the eggs and toast in bed; the being under-dressed to a really dressy restaurant because it is our anniversary and we want to feel like adults, even though we don’t know how to be adults, yet; the small wedding we will pay for with a series of bake sales; our three freckled children, who will not be allowed to eat fast food until they are ten. All of this has been compromised, because of this dreadlock having, sport coat with sandal wearing bathroom rapist. If only I get out alive, I will propose to over-sized mustache girl on the spot. We will write a book about the whole experience and our book tour will kick off, right here, in this very bookstore, where our love first began.
The sport coat sandals man zips a pair of Lee jeans and walks out of the bathroom without washing his hands. He is living in a bizarro world, where one washes their hands before urination. He walks out the door to find another victim. I am not his type. He prefers a man without a beard. Thank God, I am not his type. I wash my hands, even though, technically, I have not used the restroom facilities the way they were intended, and thus have no real reason to wash my hands. It is flu season, though. The man with dreadlocks is probably a carrier of the main airborne flu strand. Or, like that monkey in that one movie, carrying something even worse than flu. Something that will surely wipe out mankind. He has decided to spare me from vicious rape, but wants me to know how displeased he is. He has surely willed disease ridden germs all over my body. I wash my hands, furiously, singing Happy Birthday in my head twice to be sure that all of the germs have been destroyed, annihilated.
I need to find over-sized mustache girl. I need to tell her how I survived utter madness so that I could find her and make a life with her. I need to tell her that it is important, necessary to sing Happy Birthday in your head, twice, while washing your hands, so as not to contract the flu or a myriad of other diseases. I need to make sure she doesn’t let our kids eat McDonald’s until they are ten, maybe twelve years old. I see her round the corner, heading into children’s books. I don’t have a ring. Will she be offended if I propose with one of these novelty rings that light up and make your eyes roll into the back of your head when you are on ecstasy at a rave? Has she ever taken ecstasy? Is she on it now? Will she want to form a massage train or ask if I have Vick’s Vapor Rub in my bag? Should I go buy some vapor rub?
I round the corner and there she is, squatting in front of the teen reader bookshelf. She is squatting, her ass crack hanging out for all to see. In this squatting position, she looks as though she might need to lose twenty pounds, not ten, and I wonder if she has a gym membership. If we get married, will I have to pay for her gym membership? Is she the unmotivated type, who will only workout consistently if I hire her a $150/hour personal trainer? Do I have that kind of money? I will have to take on an extra client just to help this woman lose the weight that is, no doubt, slowly clogging her arteries and killing her. Can I really be with a woman who is so selfish as to die young, leaving me to raise our three children all alone? How can she be so thoughtless!? How could she expect that I would want a life with anyone that cannot take care of themselves? God, she’s probably the type of girl that smells strange after a workout, no matter what amount of deodorant is applied. She’ll have to use a special kind of deodorant, the kind that gives you breast cancer. Oh, great, now if she doesn’t die from obesity, she’ll surely die of breast cancer. And what about her ass sweat? If she can’t control her underarm sweat, her ass is going to sweat profusely, as well. We will have to buy her special pants to conceal that disgusting ass sweat. Our life savings will be spent on padded pants, designed to absorb her uncontrollable toxin excretion. Our children, embarrassed when she stands up after watching them at soccer practice, will quit sports, start hanging with freaks, develop a crack addiction and never get into good college. They will not even find a community college that will accept them. Never mind. I can’t take this. I cannot do this to our children. I cannot believe she would do this to our children!
I race down the stairs. I need fresh air. I feel claustrophobic. The walls are closing in on me. There are too many books, too many opinions, too many people judging me for not wanting to marry a fat person. I make it to the front doors. They slide open as I raise my hand in their direction, willing them open with my mind. I make it outside, there is a cool crisp air that instantly makes me feel like there will be other women out there; women without perspiration issues. Women that do Pilates. I am bent over, out of breath, but recovering with this new air, new life filling my lungs. And then, I see him. He’s smoking a cigarette and watching me bent over and out of breath. The man with the dreadlocks, sport coat and sandals is standing there, blowing smoke rings in my direction. I need a savior. I need Jesus. I need the over-sized mustache girl. Maybe, she wasn’t all that bad. Maybe, we should have a life together. I wonder if she smokes?
