Note: The opening photo is not your digital muse for this week’s writing prompt. It’s merely a placeholder for you to mildly admire and then move on with your life. I can’t reveal the true inspirational image without a smidge of background detail or I will dilute the effect of the reveal…
Picture it: Sicily, 1920.
Wait, scratch that.
Picture it: Katy, Texas, November, 2020.
We’re attending wedding nuptials for one of Partner’s nephews. (I’ve babbled about this situation recently in a post found here.) In this Time of the Covid, I was already highly-strung about attending such an event, and matters did not improve when a certain incident occurred that made everything even more surreal and unsettling.
Said incident took place after the Ceremony Proper had been conducted, a lovely diorama in which the bride was beautiful, the groom was handsome, the officiant was funny, the vows were poignant, the sun was shining on the outdoor tableau, and the Nuptial Duo gazed upon one another with eyes that were full of love and hope. And everyone was wearing a mask, except for the gazers and the Preacher Man.
Shortly thereafter, the alcohol began to flow and the dutiful attention to masking began to ebb.
This did not please me.
Suffice it to say that I did my best to distance myself from humanity. Then again, that’s my modus operandi in life, a modus that was well-ingrained long before The Covid, so in that respect it was just another drop in the bucket of my existence. Still, I only took my mask off when I was eating at my assigned dinner table or when I was swilling an option from the open bar.
I did a lot of swilling, which should surprise no one, especially the preacher man, who just happened to sit across from me at the “meet and greet” dinner the night before. (We both had admirable drinky-drink tabs when that night was over, let’s leave it at that.) Naturally, all this swilling eventually led to a need for recycling. I belched (it happens), put my mask back on (still warm, because I rarely took it off) and headed off on a quest for the appropriate comfort station, doing my best to avoid the packs of mask-less groupings of folks, hither and yon.
I found the station designated for species with a certain alignment.
I also found the station to be completely deserted.
What fresh hell? People are drinking, rather exuberantly. There should be recyclers all over the place, squirming a bit as they waited.
Then I approached one of the urinals, and I found this:
Yes, I took a picture with my phone. Wouldn’t you?
No wonder this room was empty. Something had clearly taken place that defied logic and reason.
And this, dear reader, is where you come in. What the hell happened in the men’s room of a massive, rustic, shabby-chic wedding barn originally built by Amish folk in Pennsylvania or some such (not kidding) and moved, hand-crafted plank by hand-crafted brick, to Katy, Texas (still not kidding).
Now, I know that most of you will take one gander at the photo and think “I am not touching THAT”. (And, apparently, one of the elusive participants also did not want to touch something.) But I trust that a few of you will be inspired to compose a ribald and absurd ditty about the dubious doings. And I look forward to reviewing your contributions. (Assuming that I can even read them, what with the way this mask makes my glasses fog up.)
Meanwhile, I’ll be over at the open bar, awaiting your efforts and avoiding humanity.
Categories: Flash Fiction