Inside A Cafe Bathroom

Christian Fazio
English
Professor Barnstone
3/6/07
Inside A Café Bathroom
I sat for a moment staring at the stall walls. Their yellow pastel siding that looked as if they had been trapped in a time capsule. The way they shined and were painted, and re-painted like everything else in the bathroom to give it that nostalgic sheen. So I lean a bit my back against the toilet and blast back to the seventies, in style with my pants around my ankles. I only had fifteen minutes or so, I decided to retreat to the only place I knew I was comfortable, the only place I ever really felt at home. The blank walls stared back at me, while the door stood defiant, letting little cracks of light in. This was my gateway to paradise. Beyond that door was the café and the rest of the world and for fifteen minutes I would be out of the loop.
This was one of those places I read about in all the hip magazines. With their propaganda mounted on wooden shelves that those same magazines called ambiance. Even the bathroom had it. The walls were mounted with old cologne bottles from the forties and fifties with slogans like, “unlock your animal instinct” right below their tacky names. Names like Cheetah, or something in French. The stuff brooding artists, beyond the stall door laugh about and are addicted to. typing away at lap-tops, while smoking hookah in poor lighting. The kind who would talk endlessly about how The Queen is Dead is the definitive pop album of the mid eighties and how The Smiths had never done anything as good ever. I know they are right. It was their come back record and it was fucking brilliant! But I’d be lying if I said, I hadn’t heard it before. That type of conversation is almost as common as the typing of keys, and the tiny bits of spilt mocha, that I always have to clean.
Between my knees, my underwear dangles like a plaid safety net. Its edges stained from sweat and grease of the steamy kitchen. Its crotch slightly wilted and ready to catch me, if I decide to jump from some high, building. Across my lap is the magazine I hid in my apron. Just below everyone’s order. The cover is glossy and shines in the rather off-setting colors. The word Muff is obscured by the green and blue halogen lamps dangling from the plaster ceiling. The picture is of two girls, women I should say, licking each other in a rather compromising position. Inside is more of the same. One of the pages, I have dog-eared. On the top in bold, pale yellow seventies font, the words BEAVER-RAMA are accented by the stark brown wood floor, that takes up three quarters of the photograph. In the center, is a woman, spread-eagle with her shoe leather-brown genitals pulsating in the light. For a moment, I wonder how they accurately depict pulsating genitals. Is it a matter of camera angles or what? It doesn’t matter. In small, unimportant font at the bottom of the page is the woman’s name. Vanessa Blow. I turn to this page and spit on my hand. I look at my watch. I have eleven minutes.
My own genitals lay on my thigh limp and un-bothered. They dangle for a moment before an initial rush of blood, stimulate them. Casually, I let the magazine fall to the side. The walls take the shape of beautiful women, with large breasts and tight perfect skin. The kind you might find in Muff or one of its affiliates. They stroke, fondle, lick and bite me. Their hands, my hand, slide up and down, while warm pleasure swells in me and I fill with it. My jaw goes tight after that. My teeth grind together, as my toes tighten in my shoes. Images of sunflowers and fields swarm in my head and for a moment, I am in heaven.
This is before I hear the door open and hear the sound of rubber soles, bouncing across bathroom tile in quick sudden movements. This is accompanied by a mans breathing, and the low gurgling of his stomach. The sound gets closer. Next to me, I hear the squeak of the stall door and the sound of it shutting. This is followed by the jangle of his belt and a sudden, un-welcomed cough. I sigh and pick up my magazine. “Mother-fucker” I whisper, probably too loudly. He groans a bit. I look at my watch, I have nine minutes. Below my waist, I have gone limp. Quickly, I thumb through the magazine and try to reclaim my spot. Sure enough, she is still their, her vagina, warm and welcoming. Her lips are pursed and a bit of her tongue lays, erotically posed. Her breasts are large, fake and uneven, but I can get past it. I rub myself again, and transform the room into my own private harem. This time, women wearing nylon, in g-strings dance and contort. Bending in ways I did not know possible. Licking each other and me, while, I get closer to climax.
The man’s grunting ruins everything. Reality snaps back into place quick, as I hear his low nasally whine. Beneath the metal barrier that separates us, I watch as his black shoes, crash into each other, and merge, before arching in different angles. He grunts again, slightly louder and I can hear he is straining hard. “Shit” he whispers. He is probably sweating. His hands thump on the walls I laugh a little more, louder, more obnoxiously. I try to cover it with a cough, while another loud grunt slices through the air. “Goddamn Coffee” he whispers, while his shoes almost slide off his feet. I chuckle again, wondering what kind of music he listens to.
At my foot, the magazine, lay, looking used and neglected. Its pages creased glowing different colors, while the woman on the cover looks up at me, her eyes whispering come here. I look down at my watch, I have seven more minutes. I pick up the magazine and open it back up. I smooth it with my thumbs so the word, Muff is recognizable. Next to me, the man grunts louder and more distressed. I try to ignore him, but I cannot something in there is deeply human. For a moment I sympathize with him. This is before I hear it. The low deep, loud sound of his bowels exploding. Beneath him, I can hear the water splash wildly, while beneath, his legs stretch out like long strands of tapestry and those black shoes of his point forward–arching into the future.

He goes slack after that. Tension resides, while he leaves me with the fowl smell of his insides. I fold up the magazine put it in my pocket. I look down at my safety net. Now is a good of a time as any to jump. From the corner of my eye, I see his fleshy palm dangling in the space between us. Gently he whispers “do you have any toilet paper?” Ugh, fucking parasite. Fucking Smiths fan! I grab a bunch from the dispenser and hand it to him. he grumbles “thank you,” and proceeds to clean himself. I lift myself and hoist my pants up. I look down at my watch. I still have five more minutes. For a moment, I stare at the door. I know beyond it, is my life and responsibility. Beyond it are more secret-shitting Smiths fans, with their laptops. I sit back down, “what the hell am I going to do for five more minutes?”