Fro thinks it may be mild food poisoning. Ever since ‘Soul Food’ day at work, I’ve had issues. I ate a bunch of greasy Jack in the Box and half a pound of prunes last night hoping that would clear me out, no luck. Hydrogen sulfide and varying amounts of noxious methane are expanding like thunderclouds in my assmosphere. It’s the kind of gas that may not be gas at all. Very unpredictable. I ask myself, “Do I feel lucky?” I don’t, ever. I need a toilet, bad.
Its dusk and I’m somewhere near downtown on foot beneath a cloudless purple-orange sky. A tattooed girl at a bus stop sees me approaching, picks up her unopened half gallon jug of Rogue beer and cautiously moves next to a tree ten feet from the sidewalk. Maybe its the grumpy look on my face. I’m looking for a public restroom. The situation is approaching critical. Seven Eleven guy says there’s no toilet, wishes me luck. I see neon golden arches down the street- McDonald’s always has public restrooms. Only one sitter- occupied, damn.
While waiting, I order an iced coffee. I hear coffee is a natural laxative. The kid behind the counter has a burn scar shaped just like mine, located in the same place as mine, on his forearm. I ask him if he did it with a lighter, he tells me the story. Says someone bet him 50$ to do something goofy and he won the bet and ended up with that burn on his arm. I showed him the burn on my arm, mine happened fifteen years ago and I didn’t even get 50$. He says he was sober, I wasn’t. He says his mom was pissed, so was mine. Finally, a transient with a huge backpack emerges from the vicinity of the bathroom and exits. I have the bathroom all to myself, Eureka!
A clean ceramic toilet, those nifty paper seat covers and all the two-ply I could possibly need or want, this is exactly what I had been in search of. I almost feel a burst of euphoria as Louis Armstrong trumpets “What a Wonderful World” in the privacy of that McDonald’s bathroom. I feel like things are right with the universe again. I was meant to take that half hour walk through the Eugene streets, and meet the kid with the identical forearm burn. Eugene is revealing herself to me through my gastromancy. I feel much better now. Despite my intestinal issues I’m in high spirits, I love wandering through unfamiliar streets on foot. The electricity in the air feels like a summer night.
Walking back, sipping my McDonald’s Iced Latte, I stopped back at the Seven Eleven. The guy eyed me nervously. I placed a pack of chewable Rolaids on the counter and said, “I hope this works, I’ve got to be in public this evening.” Dude chuckled and once again wished me luck. I ate two Rolaids and prayed to the god of the Sphincter. Jimmy calls me on the phone and asks me where the hell I am. I’ve been gone for over an hour now.
The Samurai Duck is dead. The Blazers lost game 6 to the Rockets in Houston. Damn. By the time I got back to the Duck, I already felt bloated again, like second week roadkill. No way I’m walkin' all the way back to McD’s. Forget it. I drink beer and shoot pool, but I can’t ignore it. My guts are experiencing some serious seismic activity.
The one-toilet men’s room at Samurai Duck has a door that doesn’t fully shut. There’s a hole in the door where the knob’s supposed to be. Permanent poop is encrusted on the seat along with traces of magic marker. The walls were black and covered with Heavy Metal Band stickers and obscenities. Concerning restrooms and critical situations, I’ve seen much worse but I had a bad feeling about this one.
What did I eat? I’ve experienced food poisoning a hundred times worse, but unlike some things, food poisoning is always bad no matter what. The IPA here is cool and kind of cute. Shelly’s friend Minnie is hoppy. The more I drink, the hoppier she gets. She tells me about Jersey and Perogi’s. She loves the East Coast. She touches my leg while she tells me her story. Jimmy is a hound dog and she’s shorter then him so he’s hittin’ on her, and some drunk-ass girl celebrating her twenty-first birthday and the drunk-ass girl's mom, who is actually pretty hot (or was she?).
A cute earthy urban lookin’ chick with blue hair and a banjo plays her set after Fro. I think her name was Libby or something. Sexy voice singing a song about Satan. Her boyfriend?, whom I at first thought was a butch-lesbo, is wearing a custom white leather jacket with black upside-down crosses on the sleeves. Tattoos cover every square inch of his face and mohawk’d head. His appearance was contrasted by a friendly smile and relaxed demeanor. Maybe not all tattoo-faced mohawk-headed upside-down cross wearer’s are unpleasant?
My pool game stunk, I got beat by Sheldon from Miami who’s in Eugene visiting family. He said he’d already been to every bar in town, he looked sunburned and drunk. The girl celebrating her twenty-first says her name is Courtney without the ‘u’. I like her mom. Courtney without the ‘u’ compliments Minnie and invites her to the ladies room. Minnie seemed flattered. Jimmy seemed interested. I think Mom was reliving her twenty-first through her daughter. Mom was forty-eight and seriously way hotter then her daughter.
Two shots of Jack with Bud backs, and my stomach feels like its stabilizing. Maybe the liquor killed the bacteria? Fro was playing a second set and for the last song I joined Fro on stage for ‘Excuse Me.’ I forgot half the second verse and all of the third verse, so I just free-styled it instead. Fro said, “Just keep goin’ man.” So I did. Good times.
Then this cat in a MegaDeath t-shirt got up and started rappin’. He was pretty good. Then this other cat with gold-teeth and another black dude that looked like Ludacris started rappin’ back and forth. It was cool but I don’t think rehearsed routines are as interesting as ad-lib freestyle. Fro got tired of strumming the guitar while everybody had fun on the microphone and all of the sudden these dope syrupy hip-hop instrumentals dripped out from the speakers thanks to the friendly long-haired sound guy.
Fro jumped in a few times with some improvisational rap. We kept it movin’ and nobody got too greedy with the microphone. Trendy kids would call this a ‘cypher’. I love the unexpected. A freestyle cypher in a ‘metal’ bar in Eugene with a rotten stomach and random people is just my cup of tea. Sheldon from Miami even got up and tried to rap. He wasn’t so good but so what- everybody wang chung tonight.
written on 090430
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