Tuesday, October 17, 2006
The Perfect Kiss
“Somebody got sick in the men’s washroom. Will you go take care of it?”
During last week’s extensive training battery, one team leader offered this gem:
“We sell spicy food. We sell alcohol. Accidents happen. People eat too much, drink too much, and sometimes, they vomit. Most people make it to the toilet, fortunately. But sometimes, they don’t. Everybody is gonna get a turn cleaning up some puke. I know it’s gross. I know it’s disgusting. But it has to be done. If a customer tells you about a mess, don’t try to pass it off to somebody else. Don’t whine and complain that it’s icky. We all get a turn. Just do it. Go clean it up. It’s not pleasant, I know, but if you want to be part of the team, you gotta take the good with bad. Alright?”
In this case, it wasn’t a customer, but rather, a manager who gently informed me of the steaming puddle in the men’s john. He watched me carefully for a reaction, his eyes hard, the gin blossoms on his nose blooming like roses.
“Sure!” I was almost too cheerful, probably because I suspected this was both a joke and a test. See how I'd react. See if I'd equivocate, if I'd protest. I half expected, upon accepting the chore, that my manager would break out in big silly grin, pat me on the shoulder, and say. “Forget it, there’s no puke, I was just testing your team spirit. Good attitude, youngster!”
That didn’t happen, so I trotted to the mop sink, filled a bucket with lemon sanitizer, and wheeled my janitorial weapons to the men’s commode.
In the rearmost stall, a puddle of barely digested chicken wings and warm foamy Sam Adams Lager lay splashed out across the toilet rim and the surrounding floor. I could smell the tangy aromas of buffalo sauce and gastric acid intermingled with the dull bitterness of beer, but these freshly ejected smells were all overpowered by the ripe waves of urine stink that drifted throughout the entire cramped washroom.
Before spreading this muck all about with the mop, I deemed it smart to use paper towels to centralize the swarm of meaty chunks into one pile. I figured this would allow me to scoop it up, plop the wad into the toilet, and flush it away, leaving nothing but murky fluids to be spread thin and ammoniated.
I didn’t realize how drastically my work hours had affected my pursuit of alcoholism. As I knelt before the ejectus, the twin smells of beer and buffalo sauce triggered a deep longing within my digestive system. The dirty swirl of pre-digested gulash cried out to me, begging me to quit my depressing new job, to go spend money I can’t afford on cheap beer, to sit like a dumb thirsty stump quaffing beers in succession, quickly, until I could no longer think or walk.
Being a mature adult, I resisted these childish impulses, deciding instead to stick it out, to deal with the mess and go on with my punishing labor schedule. 16 hours every weekday is quite a lot, but I consider myself a hardy masochist, one who faces this self-inflicted mental and physical damage with a baffling reserve of enthusiasm. Yes. I would resist these urges, maintain my discipline, and get the job done.
As I brought my paper towel wad down upon the edge of the swamp, preparing to huddle it up, a lone tear squeezed from my eye. Deep inside, I was hurting. I was sad. I missed my beer. I missed the freedom afforded by a mere 40 hours of work a week, the freedom to gorge on too much food, the freedom to render myself blind stinking drunk, frequently, for no reason whatsoever.
The puddle of vomit was calling to me.
“I am everything you want from life, and you’re just going to squidge me up with your towels and flush me away? You’re only hurting yourself. You love me. You are me.”
The vomit was right. I began to cry heavily, sobbing, feeling terribly and painfully sober.
I gave in. Instead of putting the paper towels to the mess, I bowed my head to it until my forehead was an inch from the floor. The tip of my nose dipped into the bubbly froth. As a wave of joy engulfed me, I inhaled deeply. The sharp intake of air dragged slime strings of gastro gumbo into my nose. My dick hardened.
I moaned a little bit. The smell was so good! I needed more. Slowly, tentatively, I flicked my tongue out, like a snake. I licked the brownish wetness, tasting the divine mesh of flavors, a mélange of rancid syrups cavorting upon my taste buds like dancing clowns.
I lost all control and began to lap the puke up like a greedy dog at an undiscovered crime scene. When my tongue slid between the tiles and found the spicier flavors embedded within the grout, I ejaculated, creating another puddle, this time in my pants.
As it turns out, I didn’t need the mop bucket or the ammonia.
I love this new job. 4:45 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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