I was driving home from work the other day, when I suddenly felt my stomach take a turn for the worse. Within moments, it became clear: whatever was inside me no longer wished to be there.
I quickly scanned the road ahead for anywhere that might offer relief to a distressed motorist. Alas, the only place that seemed to have any promise was an establishment by the name of “Mickey’s Meat Bar.”
The interior of Mickey’s was rather quaint — from what I could see, anyway. I had to stand in the doorway for a few minutes to let my eyes adjust to the lighting (or lack thereof).
As my pupils did what they could, I started to become aware of the distinct aromas of sizzling meat and cheap beer: meat-bar smells. I would have loved to investigate these scents a bit more, but I found my digestive tract pulling me past the meat bar and towards the lavatory.
The men’s room accommodations left a lot to be desired. There wasn’t even an attendant to offer me a choice of reading material. But then again, I wasn’t planning on staying very long. I chose the stall with the least amount of graffiti, lowered my Dockers and planted my rear on the unexpectedly warm seat. (Apparently, sanitary items such as seat protectors were a luxury item Mickey’s customers could do without.)
[After numerous threatening emails, I decided to remove this paragraph. Suffice it to say, a lot of crude things were mentioned and in very graphic detail. Consider yourself lucky. The content that follows should be much easier on your stomach.]
In any case, thirty minutes later, I was ready for a proper clean-up. That’s when I made a shocking discovery: there was no toilet tissue to be had. Fortunately, around that same time, another meat-bar patron entered the restroom and took his place on the throne next to mine.
Now, I’m not one to bother another man while he’s in the process of answering nature’s call, but I really had no choice. Besides, I spotted a hole in the divider that seemed to be placed there for just such emergencies. Scrawled above the hole (with what I could only assume was some kind of hunter’s knife) were the words Tell Me What You Want, Baby. And so I did:
“Excuse me.” my words echoed off the musty walls.
“Huh?” His voice sounded harsh, like a man who just ate ten pounds of overcooked meat.
“Uh, yes, I was wondering if you might offer me a little relief here.”
There was silence. Then he grumbled, “It’s a two-way street, buddy.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You know, you do me, I’ll do you.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not following you.”
“OK, fine. I’ll follow you. But no funny business.”
“Uh, you’re losing me here.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of that. Just stick it in the hole.”
I looked around the stall. Stick it in the hole? What was he talking about? That’s when it dawned on me. I quickly removed the empty cardboard tube from its rusty spindle, then slipped it through the opening in the divider. To my surprise, it was a perfect fit. Things were starting to make sense.
He rudely yanked the roll out of my hand. “Are you fucking retarded?”
“Sir, I beg of you, please, if you could just spare a few sheets of toilet tissue, I would be forever grateful.”
“Why? You already finished?”
“Well, I should say so. I’ve been finished for almost 30 minutes.”
The next thing I knew, about twenty sheets of toilet tissue were being shoved through the hole, followed by some crude comment like “Here, have a fucking field day.” And then he left. He didn’t even bother to flush. Or wash his hands. Honestly, I’m not sure what he was doing there in the first place.
A few days later, a friend of mine told me that this small window I discovered in the men’s room actually has a name. They call it the “glory hole.” When asked what its intended purpose was, my colleague merely gave me a strange look and said, “You know . . .” And then his voice trailed off.
Oh, I know, all right. And honestly, I don’t understand why people get so embarrassed when they’re discussing normal bodily functions. Everyone eats. Everyone must dispose of their waste material. And should those people find themselves sitting on an unusually warm seat with nothing but an empty cardboard tube to provide them with relief, I certainly hope they’ll be as lucky as I to find an orifice in the men’s room where it’s needed most. The glory hole: Oh, what a glorious hole it is.
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