The Bathroom by Cameron Barrett The man just sat there. Around him were three walls and a door. The latch didn't fasten properly which made the man nervous. He didn't want anybody walking in on him. Beneath him was one of those older-style porcelain toilets that you only see in South Dakota where modern technology came last on the state's list. Down where his pants hung around his ankles in a pool of cloth was a cold cement floor strewn with scraps of toilet paper, old magazines, newspapers, and even a dried up used condom. The walls were covered with graffiti, written in pen, spraypaint, pencil, and a dark substance that looked like dried shit but one could not be sure. The miniature blue tiles that covered the three walls hadn't been cleaned in years and the grout between them was no longer white but a color somewhere in the spectrum between ebony and ivory. Dirt and crud covered the back of the entire stall except where the man was sitting. He had made sure to line the seat of the toilet with paper as his mother had instructed him years ago whenever he went anywhere. And he was careful not to let his dick touch the inside front of the toilet where countless others had been before. God only knew what diseases you could catch in a public restroom. The man looked around his temporary asylum and sighed. He only wished his body would hurry up and do its stuff. Boy, did he hate diarrhea. A little voice was nagging at the back of his head making making his mind itch uncontrollably. He told it to shut up and that he he knew he shouldn't have stopped at that Taco Bell a couple of towns back. He yawned and sighed again. When it finally came, it came with a rush. Fluids of all colors came rushing out of his body making a splishing sound when it hit the not-so-sanitary water. A small quantity of dark water splashed up and ricocheted of his lower anatomy. This was followed by a very loud fart that made the toilet reverberate and ass hurt. The feeling was euphoric; almost as if he was back in college again and high on dope, letting the Peace Children give him enemas. He was almost finished shitting his innards when a blurb of writing caught his eye. The graffiti read "No eternal reward will ever forgive us for wasting the dawn" and it was signed the "The Mad Graffiti Artist." The man sat there and thought about this. He looked down and then up and saw a solemn spider webbing a home in the back corner near the dim light that always shone. He thought about how his life had been pretty boring and unsubstantial up to this point. All he had accomplished was a mediocre job selling vacuum cleaners from Texas. To most people he was considered expandable, nonexistent. He could sit here for the rest of his life and nobody would miss him. No wife. No children. No family. A boss that was surprised to see him every second Tuesday of each month to turn in his sales records. Yep, a dead-end guy doing a dead-end job for a dead-end company out of Dallas. That was his life. Pretty much a waste of a human being. The man sighed for the third time. He gave his bowels one last hard squeeze but it had little effect. One little puff of sulfuric air exited his hindquarters and floated up to his nostrils. He reached over and pulled some length from the dispenser and tore it leaving a ragged white end. He took his four little white squares and folded them neatly into one. He then proceeded the ritual performed so often. He half-stood up and reached around to a most awkward position hoping his knees wouldn't give out. A grimace came across the man's face as the harsh white toilet paper rubbed his ass raw. he swore when he felt his finger poke through the pitifully thin paper and swipe a piece of shit only half-out. The man dropped the mangled paper into the toilet full of green wastes and flushed it with his clean hand. He didn't want to pull up his pants yet as he was afraid of getting them dirty so he pushed the stall door open and waddled over to the sink basin. Under the cracked mirror there were two sinks with stainless steel spigots that somehow managed to defy nature by growing rust. Both were in need of dire cleaning. Dirt and grime line the insides and much hair clogged the drains where someone had painfully combed his or her dredlocks out. The soap dispensers were empty and even if they were full he doubted that they would work. He turned the hot water faucet and none came out so he tried the other sink. All he could get was cold. He proceeded to wash his hands and and finished his grooming paying great attention to his hands. After all, who could sell vacuums with dirty hands. A condom machine hung ugly on the wall next to the washing station. The man checked his pockets for the six quarters requires for the one item he doubted he would ever need. Five quarters, Damn! He laughed to himself and made his way out of the rest area bathroom, across the brown grass and to his green van with the company logo stenciled on the side. He looked to the east and saw that he sun was just cresting the desert mountains giving the whole area a warm rosy glow. The man stretched his worn body and felt the warmth on his face. He smiled and looked back at the bathroom that had changed his life. Yep, he was sure. It was going to be a good day.