Copy cat

A dear absolutely insane friend sent me this highly interesting e-mail. She had titled it "Not for the Faint of Heart/Stomach". Interestingly, around that time I too went through a staggeringly similar experience which shall be written about at a later time. Currently am just posting a copy of this FINE literary work. The world needs to know

At 9p tonight, I was heading back to the city from the suburbs about 45 mins away when I realized that my tummy was grumbling a little. I gauged the intensity of the discontent and decided that whatever was going on could wait until I got back to the city, picked a few things up at the Rite Aid (pharmacy), and then returned to my apartment. (For those who know the Main Line I was leaving the Bryn Mawr Starbucks to head back to the city. The rumbling started near the Wynnewood Superfresh - basically, I was still about 30 mins away from the city). 10 Minutes after making what I thought was an astute assessment, the (g)rumbling increased in intensity and it occurred to me that it may have been a good idea to stop at a gas station, just in case. Thus went my internal dialogue:

Samara: Maybe we should stop at this station.
Sammie: Uhm. Are you serious? It's near Mantua (not somewhere one would choose to stop, especially at night) and it's a gas station!
Samara: You're right. we'll get back to the city, go to Rite Aid, and then head back to the apt.

5 minutes later at (at about 50sthng and Lancaster) I realized that things were serious. I knew that I would be coming up to one of my favorite Mexican restaurants and figured that I could stop there if necessary. (For those of you who know Mexican isn't my fave genre of food, don't get stuck on the paradox. I won't necessarily choose a Mexican resto but usually enjoy the fare when I do sample it. And I know that I eat everything else. I have given up trying to comprehend the various paradoxes that reside inside this addled brain of mine. Ok, back to the story).

As I seriously contemplated the newly-minted prospect of stopping at the restaurant over the next few blocks, I pulled up behind a trolley. For those of you who aren't familiar, trolleys are not the best thing to end up behind when you are in a hurry on this particular stretch of road. It is illegal to overtake on the left when they flash their lights and stop, which they do at every mothaf'in block. There are double yellow lines on the right so overtaking that way isn't a legal/safe option. Normally I'd find some way to 'circumvent those restraining circumstances' but by this time, I realized that I was driving perched on my right buttocks and right outer thigh, things were so bad. In that position, I really didn't trust myself to get around the trolley w/out causing an accident. 5 slow blocks/trolley stops/red lights later, I was at Spring Garden (39thish) and Lancaster. I couldn't withstand any longer. Zocalo (my fave Mexican restaurant) was about 3 blocks away, the trolley had stopped at a red light, and all the buildings on this immediate stretch were closed for the night.

Desperate, I looked around for a relatively obscure corner - it dawned on me that I was quite prepared to 'do it like they do on the discovery channel' - it was, unfortunately, seeming like the only option available. (Yes, yes. I know that this is not the 'it' the song refers to). Miraculously, as I reached my nadir, my peripheral vision captured a man briefly pull back a curtain from a glass door of a store. I hurriedly pulled up to the curb, the back end of the car jutting out into the road, sprung out of the car, and banged on this man's door. The man I presumed had pulled the curtain back a few seconds earlier came to the door again, a bunch of keys in hand, and proceeded to open the door apprehensively. Another, younger man hovered behind him.

"Please may I use your bathroom!!!" I pleaded/commanded, leaning into the door, prepared to 'boom rush' it or push my way in if necessary.

Sweet Muslim shopkeeper: (still a bit apprehensive) My bathroom is on the third floor honey...
Me: I don't care! Please!! (I stepped over the threshold of the entrance to the store to show things were serious!)
SMS: (rightly sensing the urgency, to younger man): Show her where it is.

As those words rolled off his lips I thought both:
a.) Glory Hallelujah
and
b.) Jesus there are two men here. I don't know them. And this one has a key to lock the door. Will they rape me? If they do, I'll be largely responsible. Jesus.

And as that last Jesus ran through my mind, I bounded further inside the store and leaped (literally using my hands to propel my ever-more-embroiled bottom half) up the staircase. Now I truly understand why relieving oneself is oft described as succumbing to the call of nature. I felt like an animal in the wild as I hastened to answer that demanding mother.

And that is the abridged version of how I nearly crapped my pants on an otherwise mundane Wednesday night. I am forever indebted to the wonderful Hakim and his third floor bathroom. Allah, Jehovah, David Koresh, whoever, be praised that the sh*t did not hit anything other than the toilet bowl.