It was the earlier chunk of late Wednesday morning, and you entered the men’s room at the Haywood Road Ingles, smelling like an ash tray and meth, while I desperately waved my foot around the malfunctioning toilet sensor, hoping I would be able to flush the heaping load of diarrhea I left almost to the toilet’s brim. I didn’t catch your face, as I was busy hoping no one would notice the soupy crime scene I just left in my wake, nor my sprinting out of the Ingles with an asshole as chapped as my conscience, but your voice sounded rakish and strong, like you had been lighting cigarettes one after the other directly into your pus-ridden stoma for roughly a quarter century or more. I imagine your name is “Biff” or “Russ,” short for “Eustace,” for some reason, and that the person you were yelling at on your cell phone was equally perturbed, as your voice echoed gravely into the hellish din of the surprisingly-well-toilet-papered supermarket restroom. Happy Easter.
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