There are many unspoken laws by which men live. For example, when using the restroom, a man does not use the urinal next to another man if there are other urinals available. In this vein (and by “this vein,” I mean the restroom vein), I am still pretty shaken up by the actions of a certain male who will remain unnamed (he will remain unnamed mostly because I don’t actually know his name—and also to protect him from certain ridicule at the hands of any man who reads this). Also, remember that he wears a pair of ridiculously beat up New Balance sneakers (just remember, okay?).
I often begin stories with a bit of background information, and people always tell me “Cameron, no more details—just get to the point!” And to those people, I say, “what is a story without backstory?” And they always tell me that it’s either a) easier to listen to, b) easier to pay attention to, or c) funnier. Well, first of all, if you rush a story, yes, it will be easier to listen to, but will it be as entertaining? Second of all, how the hell are you supposed to pay attention to a story with no background information? You don’t know the characters involved, you don’t understand the situation, and there is no way for you to fully grasp the emotions of the storyteller. Lastly, I’d like to just point out that the funniest parts of stories are usually in the minute details. Honestly, think about every great comedian and every great stand-up bit. Now if you remove the background information from said stand-up bits, are those stand-up bits still funny? (unless, of course, your definition of a “great comedian” includes Dane Cook—In which case you probably won’t like this story, and I probably wouldn’t like you if I met you, so I really don’t want you taking enjoyment from my story anyways).
Alright, now in the way of background information, I have “known” this guy for about two months (and I use quotations around “known” because I don’t know his name, don’t know where he lives, and don’t know his age). I first met this kid on the bus (which in Dallas
The last time I saw this unnamed man (until yesterday), he was getting off at the bus stop that I get off at to get to school. I thought nothing of it (as long as you don’t count my obvious fear of him) until I noticed him following me up the hill that I walk to school. At this point, I thought my life was in danger and turned around swiftly (and by “swiftly” I mean awkwardly and dramatically) and said (or yelled, rather) “why are you following me?!?!” He looked up from his shoes and said “I’m not following you, I’m going to school.” It was at this point that I realized he had a very prominent speech impediment, and that he went to my school.
I completely forgot about all of this until yesterday. I was minding my own business, sitting in class, when I got a sudden urge to use the restroom. I asked my teacher for a pass, exited the classroom, and entered the men’s restroom. Now, every time I enter a public restroom, I casually check to see if anyone else is in there (and by “casually” I mean awkwardly and dramatically). I don’t know why I do it, but I have a feeling I’m not the only one. Anyways, I checked to see if anyone was in there and noticed that one of the stalls was locked. I entered the second stall, pulled down my pants, and sat. As I glanced at the floor, I noticed a pair of crappy New Balance sneakers. It was at this point that I heard the boy from the bus with the prominent speech impediment who wore crappy New Balance sneakers and went to my school say something: “Hey, are you that kid from the bus?” (he must have recognized my signature penny loafers).
Now, I don’t know how it is for other people, but for me, the restroom is not a place to engage in conversation—It is a place to rid yourself of waste. At first, I made a conscious effort not to respond to the strange boy. Until he repeated the question, that is. At this point, I was severely disturbed and had no desire to remain in the bathroom, but, scared for my life, I responded with a sheepish “yes.”
“Where’d you get your shoes?” he continued.
“Clark ’s shoes,” I said. I needed to get out of there. I hadn’t even begun to rid myself of the waste that you rid yourself of in a restroom and here I was having a conversation with a guy who sets his arm on fire and brandishes pocket-knives creepily on the bus. I pulled up my pants in a hurry, flushed the toilet for absolutely, no reason and declared “alright, I’m done,” hurrying out of the stall.
As I exited the stall, the boy responded to my declaration: “yeah, me too.” He left his stall without flushing (leading me to believe he was not even ridding himself of waste) and followed me to the sinks. Now, there are two sinks in the restroom, and two respective soap dispensers. So imagine my surprise when I ran my hands under the water of the sink on the left side, and was joined by a pair of cold, clammy, black hands beneath mine, being rinsed by all the dirty water from my own hands. I really needed to get out of there now. I stepped back, offering the sink to him, but he stepped back too, leaving us both standing awkwardly in the restroom with the sink running. “You go first,” I said. “No, you,” he replied. So I placed my hands back beneath the faucet, only to be joined by his hands once again! I fled.
Now, you may be asking, “what is the point of this story, Cameron?” And I will tell you. First, always check carefully for other people when using a public restroom. Second, if you see a pair of crappy New Balance sneakers, leave. Third, if someone in the stall next to you attempts to start a conversation, tell them you have herpes (or genital warts, either works).
