Piece #06: You See The Shoe
Song of Influence: "Slip It In" -- Black Flag, Slip It In
Theme: Adventures in Public Bathrooming With Greg Ginn and Henry Rollins

Thought I'd have it all to myself. Should've fuckin' known better. It never ends up the way you want it to in places like this.

The feeling of finding the best chocolate seashells in the sea of fruit-filled choco-nastiness, a.k.a. a box of chocolates. That's a good feeling. A good fucking feeling.

I felt that way when I finally found the best public restroom on campus. Yeah, that's right. PUBLIC. The shit-stained, urine-smelling breeding ground for diseases that we have to use every day. Fuck, it's mostly the lazy assholes among us that make an effort to make those places a burden to visit, y'know?

I'm a hunter by nature. In between classes I'd focus on that sole objective, gliding through crowds of apathetic kids like myself. Shoving, sliding, taking shortcuts through various buildings to avoid the relentless rays of sunlight. What I did has become an art. Little did everyone know, while I looked like a simple student looking for his class, I was in fact planning to hoard the best location on campus to take a crap.

Yeah, that's right. All mine, no more of these Education Building cramped biological minefields. You get the scraps, while I get the rewards.

I found it in the basement of the library, among shelves of video tapes that seemed to stretch forever. The door was easy to miss, but I found it. I'd have to thank that lone janitor I spared some cash to that day. He worked here and he told me of the news:

"They hoard it for themselves."

"What?" I queried.

The blue-collar worker lit up, leaning against the wall as he puffed away on a cancer stick. He had a thick french accent.

"Yeah, those bourgeoisie fucks don't wanna rub noses with us. Fucking pigs. I cleaned that shitter for years, man! Always ended up using the upstairs can that those Greek fuckers would trash. Fraternities can rest upon my cock."

My mind was racing. Finally, victory against those who would thwart my plan! Music filled my ears as the world began to run at 45 rpm.

"So, how do I get in?"

So I'm here now, sitting on the polished throne. Shit, it's not even the same toilet brand as the swill I have to deal with on a regular basis! Good God, this is awesome! This is cleaner than my 'rents house, and that saying a lot. All it took was a twenty being waved to a guard, as well as a forged ID card, and I was IN!

Aaaah, alone at last in a public area, with my very own sounds of defecation to keep me company. The slow, steady hum of the air-extractor keeps the area from being too silent. Two stalls and two urinals. The lighting was excellent.

This was truly the bathroom of the Gods.

People must not come here much... but then again, it's not a lot of space to clean, either.

The door opens.

Shit.

Okay okay... calm. It might be a guard. It might not. Let's hope they're only taking a leak.

Think about Black Flag, think about Greg Ginn. How his fingers would fly across those guitar frets, wailing and solos so powerful. Think of how awesomely dark those songs were, how you were felt with an awe as you heard Henry Rollins' deep, throaty growling of the lyrics of "Rat's Eyes," complimented by Greg Ginn's guitar playing...

No. My fears are confirmed.

The door opens.

Frantically, I can almost imagine the song "Slip It In" by Black Flag thrashing all about me. The guitar riffs, the bass, the drums are interrupted by regular poundings of feet as I see a set of panted legs and brown leather shoes come into the stall next to me.

The legs do a quick 180 so that they're facing the door.

The pants drop.

Not even the worst part. I'm damned to the same existence as those who partake of the proletariat restroom. Shit. Shit, shit shit. Oh, the fucking part I hate the WORST!

You see the shoe.