Updated: Jul 23
That the toilet is clogged.
I shake my little pecker
And try to flush it anyway.
It floods up to the edge,
Weigh my options.
I decide that I don’t want to go up
To the gorgeous barista,
And tell her that the toilet is clogged,
Because I am afraid that
She’ll think that it was me that clogged it.
I don’t want her thinking that I took a giant shit in there.
So I grab the plunger
And start violating the toilet.
And I am really pounding that porcelain chair,
When someone knocks on the door
And scares the shit out of me.
(No pun intended here.)
I look over my shoulder and say,
“Just a second!”
But, because I stopped paying attention for a moment,
And kept plunging away,
piss-water lept from the bowl,
And found my clothes.
I try to dry myself off with a paper towel,
But there is piss all over me.
I go back to pounding the toilet with the plunger.
The water starts to go down.
I wipe the sweat off of my forehead,
And look down at my pants and shoes.
They were still soaked through.
I take a breath, and try to make it to my seat without being seen, or smelled.
But, as soon as I open the door
A cute little lady,
Who I know
Very minimally—Except for one long conversation here at this same coffee shop a few months ago,
And another awkward encounter at her place—
Is leaning against the wall,
Right outside the bathroom.
I freeze mid step.
“Hey.” I say.
“Hey.” She says back.
“The toilet was clogged, but it wasn’t me! I didn’t shit in there! I just took a piss! But then I tried to unclog it . . . and I got piss all over myself.” I pointed to my pants.
She took a step back from me and said,
“It’s good to see you!”
“Yeah, you too.”
I walked away.
She walked into the bathroom.