Monday, March 28, 2016

The Idaho Dumper






So I’m at my desk talking to the New Guy when my female co-worker walks in and two seconds behind her is this man I have never seen before. She turns around and takes a step back like she didn’t notice he was there but he’s looking around, head swiveling like a weather vane in a tornado. He’s a short chubby sort of guy with really black hair and really, really, red cheeks, and he blurts out, “Please mister, I gotta go right now, right now, BAD where is your bathroom PLEASE!” And my female co-worker, who has a distaste for the shared bathroom points and before she can say anything Chubs is heading for the door and undoing his pants and he’s wheezing like he’s about to explode, which he is, in a manner of speaking.

The New Guy has stood up to join us staring at the bathroom door when we hear this sound, a sound like someone is having a fingernail pulled out slowly, “AgggRRRgggRRGGG!” and then there’sa  sound like Chubs just hit his fist against the wall or his head.

We stare. No one says a word.


This goes on for a full minute with the sound dying down, a couple of whimpers escape, then the sound again, then the sound of a flush.

All this while, I’m having a text conversation with The Muse, and she thinks this is hysterically funny, but it also reminds her of a Stephen King story where an alien comes out of a man’s rectum. This is, funny, in a way, unless the man dies in there, and damn, what a mess will that be?

So there’s another flush. Silence, and then very clearly we hear him whimper, “Please Jesus, please, no more. And another flush. Then noises.

My female co-worker, who despises the fact of a shared bathroom and is extremely religious, walks out. Later she told me that no matter what happened in there, it was a man’s job, and I suppose she was right. It’s me and the New Guy, and whatever it going on behind that door.

Then, a voice. “Please, mister, anyone, please, I’m out of toilet paper.”

The New Guy looks at me with horror in his eyes.
“Please. Anyone there?”


He knows what he has to do and he knows why. He’s the New Guy. He has to do this sort of thing. I hand him a roll of toilet paper out of the supply closet and walk out of the office. It’s in god’s hands now, and there’s no sense in anyone else getting traumatized. Three second later the New Guy emerges and pants, “The smell!” and he gets into his truck and speeds away.

I look at the car that Chubs arrived in and it’s got Idaho plates on it. My female co-employee shows back up, rolls down the window of her truck and looks at me. I know what she’s thinking. But at that very moment my work phone rings, oh, I’m at work, and I have to go talk to someone. My female co-employee sits there and glares at me as I leave.

I’m back in twenty minutes and she’s still just sitting there. Chubs’ car is missing. “Have you gone inside yet?” and as she rolls up her window I can tell that no, she hasn’t and no, she isn’t, and men are pigs, especially in bathrooms, and even though she’s terribly quiet she says more in that look as she leaves than a lot of people say all day.

I go inside and there’s a smell. Not like a pig farm or a three hundred head of cow dairy, but an odd smell like something fell into a fire or …something. But it’s just this side of terrible. The bathroom door is still shut and the fan is still running. I open a window or two in the office, open the door to the outside and tell The Muse, via text, that I can hear her giggling from here. I take a deep breath and open the door.

Now, imagine your very worst nightmares when it comes to guys and bathrooms. Remember the bathroom scene in “Trainspotting”? I sure hope not because that was one terrible movie, but the thing here is that the bathroom was immaculate. Uh, almost. Okay, on the toilet lid there was what looked like specks of blood. Chubs had wiped everything down, cleaned up prettily, but there was still some spots and they looked blood red. There was a trash bag tied up in the corner where he had cleaned up after he cleaned up.

The Muse asks, “The bag isn’t moving, is it?”

Honestly, I hadn’t thought about that but once she brought it up, damn, l what could be in that bag other than used trifold brown paper towels? I go out to my truck and get rubber gloves.  The Muse tells me I have to do this because who know what is in that bag? But I think maybe not. Do I really want to know?

So here’s the thing, and this is where we get down to the bone on the subject. It sounded plenty horrible in there and I’m not altogether sure I’ve ever heard anyone have a bowel movement like that at all. Suppose Chubs was actually a chick and she miscarried in that bathroom? What if Chubs works somewhere where he’s a he there but was just born with the wrong plumbing and now somehow got pregnant and in my bathroom at work is the results of a society that cannot judge a person by their character but just by plumbing alone are we made to be who we are? Nothing else matters, right, just where the waste comes out and where babies are formed, right?

More than anything else, I have to look in that trash bag because if there’s a baby in there, dead or alive, I have to know. Now it isn’t funny at all, the smell is even worse, but there’s nothing inside but brown trifold paper towels, some flecked with blood, others, eww.

My co-workers return and I realize my female co-worker is right, men are pigs, and for that reason alone there ought to be separate bathrooms. But here’s a guy who did a decent enough job cleaning up after himself and in the process made me wonder just what in the hell happened in there?


Take Care,

Mike

7 comments:

  1. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!
    What you don't know, yet, is what has been flushed and is now fermenting in the cesspool below, growing, ripening, preparing to bloom and burst back up through the toilet when you least expect it.

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    Replies
    1. We have an external tank that gets emptied every Wednesday. So HA!

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    2. It still has at least 24 hours to cook!

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  2. Sounds like extremely painful hemorrhoids. I've had them, before I changed my diet.

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    Replies
    1. I've never heard anything like it. I swear, the man needs help.

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  3. Doncha hate that shit?

    Actually you'd be better off if he died in there. Then they'd bring in pros to take care of it.

    ReplyDelete