So last night La Raymunda and I are out to dinner with the O’Neil’s from the block. We ate Chinese, and about midway through dinner I excused myself to the men’s room to attend to some business of the sit-down variety.
Author’s note: I promise that this is as graphic as the story gets. Feel free to proceed in a carefree manner, oh intrepid reader.
So I’m in the stall, locked inside and doing what one does when sit-down business announces itself, when the door to the restroom opens and small shuffling feet enter. Suddenly the door to my stall is flung open and there I am face-to-startled-face with a four foot tall red-headed nine year old kid.
I look at him. He looks at me. I look back at him.
“Hi,†I said.
The kid slammed the door shut and I’m left to wonder why the H-E-double toothpicks the lock on the stall did not work. While I’m pondering, I hear the kid go to the urinal just on the other side of the wall from me. Now I’m more or less done by this point, but I figured I’d do the kid a favor and hang out in the stall for a couple of minutes and let him finish up and leave so he doesn’t have to be embarrassed by meeting me again face-to-face. So I wait while the kid pees.
But he doesn’t pee.
At all.
He’s doing something else there at the urinal.
And what, pray tell, could he be doing? Oh, what any nine year old kid would do when standing at a urinal, right? And that would be…?
“Why, burping, guvnah!”
Ah, burping indeed! I couldn’t believe my ears. The kid was standing at the urinal…burping.
burp burp burp BELCH burp brap buuuuurp BURRRP burp belch burp BRAP burp
He burps for what seems like hours and then finally he stops burping, pees and flushes the urinal. But one flush isn’t enough. Not for this kid. He waits for twenty seconds or so to pass and then flushes the urinal again. Then a third time. And then he begins the lengthy process of putting himself back together, fidgeting and shuffling and tucking and zipping and unzipping and zipping again. Altogether it was about a five minute pee.
By now I am really ready to go. My legs are starting to fall asleep the way they do when one sits on the can too long, but I’m holding out for the sake of the kid - still waiting for him to leave. But patience is on thin ice.
“It won’t be long,†I think. “He’s just got to wash his hands and then we’re all set.â€
I hear the kid turn on the water faucet. I hear him wash his hands. I hear the kid turn off the water faucet.
Then he turns it back on.
Then he turns it off again.
Then back on. “What the…?†I think.
Then I hear BRUCE LEE KUNG-FU SOUNDS. The kid is doing karate in front of the sink! He’s turning the faucet on and off and going hiyeeeeeYAH! woooocheeeeeNWAH! NOOOjeeeeeYAH!
And that does it for me. Screw the little bastard, I’m leaving. I get up, harrumphing loudly and flushing, and no sooner do I make a move for the stall door than I hear the kid race across the bathroom, fling the restroom door open and sprint down the hall, the door slamming shut behind him.
I washed up, laughed all the way back to my table and finished my spicy da cheng chicken.