public

I imagine that it’s the sound of a phone book being ripped in two, or even a foghorn under water. It’s an incredibly disturbing noise considering the circumstances. It even has a mild echo across the tiled walls. I look forward, trying not to laugh out loud because I get the impression it would only encourage him. I stare at the ineffective locking mechanism of the door. With a small twist it’s meant to hold the stall door shut, but it appears that it will bounce ajar if someone opens the door to the bathroom too quickly. I’ll have to keep tabs on that.

There it is again. The horrifying mental image of someone vomiting out the wrong end flashes across my lids. Again I have to catch myself before I burst into laughter. It wouldn’t even have to be an outright laugh. With only the half inch of hollow steel between us he’d easily hear even a snicker. With a faulty latch I have to be careful. He’s been shifting back and forth and mumbling for quite awhile now.

The rectal vomiting noise brings me out of my faint daydream and the smell returns. When I first sat down I was able to focus on the pages and reading, but the concert going on in the stall beside mine was too much. I had to put the book back in my bag. Now the noxious fumes seem to surround me. Even when I inhale through my mouth I get the faint odor of rotted spinach. The smell brings to mind skunked beer poured on smoldering hair.

I guess I could have thought longer before deciding on the public library to drop one. In retrospect it could have been more peaceful at the Target, or the Convention Center, or really anywhere else. But I had been in a rush after lunch and it was sort of on the way. That and I wanted to get some reading done. Two birds with one stone and the like, you know.

Plunk. That’s ridiculous. Then the sweet, light, rapid thudding of the paper roll de-spooling. It was only a matter of —

“hephewf, that’s what I needed,” in a loud, cracking voice from the stall next to mine. “That was a great shit. Incredible.” This last word comes out slightly muffled by something he’s whipping across his face. He must have over exerted himself.

“On a scale of shits, that’s an eleven.” I wonder what the scale goes up to. I would assume ten, but my impression of him forces me to question if he’d use a standard anything, much less a form of measurement. There are bags piled on the floor, against the wall, in front of him. I can see just the bottoms of what looks like about four backpacks and a couple small piles of clothes.

I’m absolutely at a loss. I’m beyond laughing to the point of utter confusion. At least I’ve apparently adjusted to the stench.

I read somewhere that homeless people—some of them with mental sickness—spend a lot of their time in public libraries on cold days. Maybe he thinks he’s talking to someone, or just appreciative of the congratulations the voices in his head are giving him.

“Eleven out of ten, whew.” Flush. I realize he’s been repeating himself. His bags are off the floor, but one has a strap that drags on the tile as he reaches for the latch. My attention turns to the quarter-inch gap between the wall of the stall and my dismal latch.

The mechanism slides on his door, and as he pulls the door open the strap drags more. He pushes heavily against it as he walks through. One of the bags bumps the side of the frame as he falters through the opening. The bump is enough to jar my door open, but, because my attention was fixed on the latch, I’m ready. In one quick motion I lean forward, push the door quietly shut, and twist the latch into place again.

My lids light up with a sequence where the latch fails and I’m ill-prepared; it swings open only slightly, but enough for Bag Man to see the goofy almost-laughing face I’m wearing, which prompts him to exclaim, “Man, you should’ve seen that. Eleven out of ten!”

As I hear the bathroom door swing shut, I come to the realization that I’ve been in this spot for almost twenty minutes. I’m mildly jealous of Bag Man. He just made his own week and I’m left with the lingering smell of fishy lake water, a slight sense of uneasiness and an urge to laugh harder than I have all week, despite being the only one in the bathroom and how crazy that would seem to someone walking in.