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Tumors, Scabs and Taco Sauce

Frank stepped into the stall, dropped his pants and sat on the cold bowl. "Well," he thought, "at least it's not hot from some other guy's ass." But this fact seemed to offer little comfort. His shift would be starting soon and the long night lay ahead.

He thought about the job and about the others who worked there. Damaged, defeated people. Every night he emptied their trash, saw their bills, their bank reciepts. They were drowning in debt. He vacuumed their cubicles, looked at their photos, their demanding spouses and miserable, spoiled children. "The unhappiest people in the world work in publishing," he thought, then felt his bowels twitch. It was the tacos. He had bought them at a cheap street corner stand and now they were having their revenge. He would have to wait it out. He looked down at his hands. A small scab, about the size of a postage stamp, from where a broom had broken and stripped away the skin, was beginning to crack and peel. On his right sleeve, a spot of taco sauce had dried. Seven years mopping floors. It was too much to imagine. And others shot decades through the back this way. Frank tried not to think about it. Finally, the cramps passed. The tacos were in the bowl.

As Frank turned to wipe, he felt the node just below the skin at the small of his back. It seemed slightly larger than usual. "Tumors and scabs and taco sauce," he thought, "is that all there is?" Then he heard the door open and someone walk inside. There was the sound of a zipper, then the splash of urine. Frank pulled up his pants, buttoned, zipped and flushed.

He opened the stall and walked past the man at the urinal. Frank didn't recognize him, but that wasn't unusual. It was a large company and turnover was high. Frank hated awkward moments, so he quickly began to wash his hands to aviod being trapped at the sink when the man finished pissing. But before he could reach for a towel, the man appeared. He said nothing, but Frank imagined him to glance briefly at the stain on Frank's sleeve.

For a moment, there was silence.

"Taco sauce," said Frank, reaching for a towel.

The man didn't answer. He didn't wash his hands. He simply looked straight into the mirror, flicking a comb through his hair.

"I know you think this stain on my sleeve is shit, like I just wiped my ass with my sleeve, but I'm telling you it's taco sauce. It's mostly sugar. It'll wash right out."

The man looked at Frank, slipped his comb back into his pocket and walked out without a word.

Frank checked his watch. "Only thirty years to retirement," he said.

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