At the speed of sleep I shoot up the bathroom. Another tragedy on a Friday. I’ve unzipped my Gratuity Pouch, the one I put the bills in, and am pissing through it onto the stall.
Two months ago I climbed a ladder—when I was still capable of painting houses—and rolled white paint on a cracked exterior (put a blanket over a crime scene). Just as I was coating the final corner, my sneaker slipped perfectly off.
What happened next was I woke up on the grass with a head that didn’t work the same as before.
Now I’m standing in a stall cursed with amateur graffiti. People can hear me. Someone said I’m giggling—but it’s not that innocent a sound.
What the hell are you doing in there? someone asks, knocking with their shoe.
Just fine. Thank you! I say.
I think someone’s in there with him, says another man.
Just me, thanks!