Today I went to the bathroom to relieve myself. With a sigh I took off my apron while checking my facebook on my iPhone. Putting the phone away, I stepped up to the urinal and reached down to unzip my fly, only to discover that it was already undone. Then I reached inside to undo the button of my boxer shorts and let the little guy out, but it was already unbuttoned, my wang already free.
As I peed I wondered. Was this a stroke of luck? Myself already pre-prepared to pee? Or was it a narrow escape from embarrassment, humiliation and the frightening of small children?
(Not to mention public indecency!)
Thank God for aprons.
Showing posts with label Non-fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Non-fiction. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Monday, December 7, 2009
Trickles
At work, when the customers dry up and there’s nothing to do, the passing of time feels like the creak of aching bones. The superhuman supervisor is always one step ahead of everyone else. I think he has precognitive abilities. Anything I can think of doing he has already done.
My head gets that achy, floaty feeling, like my brain is slipping on ice. That feeling always makes me thirsty, so I grab a paper cup. I feel tired and hopeless and then I hear a noise that gives me hope! The clinky noise of the ice machine!
Forgetting myself, forgetting my surroundings, I crouch down and open the sliding door to watch the slow tinkle of ice babies being born and I smile.
Later I walk home and shield my face from the blows of the sun. Under a tree I seek refuge: a brief respite from the heat and a chance to wipe the sweat from my brow and regather my wits. Just when I’m feeling better I look down and see two broken halves of an eggshell. Instinctively I look up for a nest but see nothing. Down below is the horrible carnage of the ants, their gooey mandibles tearing at the yellow innards of the shell. Clawing, clicking, crunching.
I can’t watch.
Later at home, long after the sun has gone down, I’m still awake. I lie down in a bed with a gaping hole on one side and stay there feeling the pain of that void and nothing more.
I can’t sleep. I toss and turn for a while.
Much later, in a semi-lucid state, I take a pillow and put it against the wall, down low against my back. And as I drift to sleep I forget the simulation I have made and it becomes real, and for a few slumberous moments she’s lying next to me in the dark, our bottoms softly touching beneath the blankets.
My head gets that achy, floaty feeling, like my brain is slipping on ice. That feeling always makes me thirsty, so I grab a paper cup. I feel tired and hopeless and then I hear a noise that gives me hope! The clinky noise of the ice machine!
Forgetting myself, forgetting my surroundings, I crouch down and open the sliding door to watch the slow tinkle of ice babies being born and I smile.
Later I walk home and shield my face from the blows of the sun. Under a tree I seek refuge: a brief respite from the heat and a chance to wipe the sweat from my brow and regather my wits. Just when I’m feeling better I look down and see two broken halves of an eggshell. Instinctively I look up for a nest but see nothing. Down below is the horrible carnage of the ants, their gooey mandibles tearing at the yellow innards of the shell. Clawing, clicking, crunching.
I can’t watch.
Later at home, long after the sun has gone down, I’m still awake. I lie down in a bed with a gaping hole on one side and stay there feeling the pain of that void and nothing more.
I can’t sleep. I toss and turn for a while.
Much later, in a semi-lucid state, I take a pillow and put it against the wall, down low against my back. And as I drift to sleep I forget the simulation I have made and it becomes real, and for a few slumberous moments she’s lying next to me in the dark, our bottoms softly touching beneath the blankets.
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