Why is it when I have a terrible liquid avalanche pressing against the inside of my pants it decides to rain?
I wait it out on the street beneath a sagging awning of a random storefront of half-clothed mannequins. Sitting on the stoop in the rain I frequently stand and reach behind myself to squeeze my cheeks together while fighting that familiar twisting pain in my bowels. My weakening levee will soon be breached so I forge into the downpour in search of a restroom, one that is equipped with a sit-down commode and some tissue.
Becoming rain-soaked in a matter of seconds, I swim a few blocks and find a little cafe that’s playing cool jazz on the speakers and has a tiny bathroom hiding in the corner. A beautiful porcelain toilet awaits me with a healthy roll of white paper dangling from the wall like a soft surrender flag waving me over, a welcome savior in the midst of a pressurized walk through a wet, clenched hell.
I proceed to destroy that wonderful little bathroom with enough horrible power to kill a pack of monkeys and I relish in the relaxing afterglow similar to how I savor the moment of a newly finished steak.
I gingerly exit the bathroom into the slow music of a woman singing over a dark piano, order a cup of coffee and sit to watch the street through the large windows. The sun breaks all over the asphalt and the rain is all but gone.
Life really is all about timing.