I'm writing about this because it troubled me. It troubled me then and now, hours later, it continues to trouble me. It more than troubles me. It haunts me. And answers seem elusive. I believe - no, pray - that transcribing the events in question will bring some relief...some insight...some quietude of the soul.
But I am doubtful.
This event - and truly it was a singular event, more immediate and inclusive than a happening, more insidious and foreboding than an occasion - this event occurred, as most blights upon humanity's imperious face do, in the men's room on the 10th floor.
I was there, in the farthest stall (of which there are three), sitting quietly, no longer attending to the more pressing duties of such an engagement, but lingering, as is my wont, perusing an assortment of amusing pictures, most of which featured some accounting of felines in various poses, captioned in such a way as to impress upon the viewer that these cats had the capacity for human-like thought. As I sat there, mindful of nothing beyond the approaching numbness in my lower extremities, the following happened:
The door opened
Someone entered the bathroom, their heavy footfalls placing them midway between the door and my stall
There was a partial silence, broken only by the figure (presumed to be a man) breathing heavily, as if his arrival had been preceded by a great toil
The man stood, breathing with some difficulty for perhaps ten seconds and then farted
The fart lasted for approximately 7 to 10 seconds. If you have ever witnessed a mother, in the midst of playing with her newborn baby, press her lips to said baby's soft stomach and then force air through her lips then you have some concept of the base readings of this particular gastronomic outcry. In order to arrive at a more accurate imitation simply imagine a similar scenario, but one in which the mother has genetically enhanced lung capacity and is blowing on her child's stomach not because it will make the baby laugh, but rather because she is convinced that her offspring is possessed by demons who can only be exorcised by aggressively screaming directly into her child's abdomen.
Further silence, infused with heaving breathing, followed, broken by a brief, but firm, rebuttal fart
Footsteps placed the man at the sink
There was the sound of the soap dispenser being pressed three times
There was the sound of three paper towels being pulled from their dispenser
The door opened and the man exited
Now, to understand my spiritual distress, please notice that no water - in any form - was transacted during the course of the event. This oxygen-deprived stranger flushed no toilets and ran no taps (man-made or otherwise). He did, however, secure an allotment of hand soap and paper towels. For what purpose? WHAT PURPOSE?
Now I have two theories on what predicated these events. The most obvious is simply that the man knew he was about to fart, and fart in a manner that no right-minded individual would be able to politely ignore, so he brought his concerns to a safe house of sorts. That's a fairly logical maneuver.
The other option, which I believe to be the truth of the matter, is that the man, while sitting at his desk, was suddenly struck by a powerful premonition depicting a near-future in which the man had shat himself and shat himself in such a way that representatives from both human resources and maintenance would shortly be summoned to deal with the repercussions. So the man fled. He raced against time and the faulty nature of his own imperfect body and arrived at the bathroom just as his natural defenses against such a system failure were finally breached. This would explain the heavy breathing and it would also explain the moment of seeming silent contemplation that immediately preceded the colonic outburst.
He believed that he was done for. He believed that the war was lost. He believed that he was an adult male on the verge of shitting his pants at work.
But no.
Seven hard heartbeats later it was all over.
Just a ruse. Just an intestinal prank.
He had been punk'd. By his own anus.
None of which explains the need to gather soap and paper towels before fleeing the scene.
Give a ceremonial flush.
Pass your hand under the tap once or twice.
But three pumps of soap? Three strips of paper? Are you making crafts at your desk? Hats? Drugs? TELL ME!!
