Once, Twice, Three Times You’re Shaking

I know I promised I was going to be more health conscious this year, so I can’t really explain WHY I was at  Wendy’s restaurant – but I have a little tale to tell that just so takes place in a Wendy’s near-by.  This is the story about how I was almost raped in the Wendy’s bathroom, while people stood idly by.  Feel my pain.  Feel my shame.

So as I recall, I was with my wife and son walking into my local Wendy’s.  Our anticipation and delight for the square meat patties of bliss they shovel over the counter is dampened by the sheer number of people standing in line to order.  While my spouse and child were content to stand with the others, I had an ever-growing need to use the restroom, since two store visits before lunch.  Even though I had never heard my Mr. Happy “whistle” I was sure the tea-kettle feeling in my bladder was going to alarm the crowd if I didn’t handle the matter post haste.  My wife didn’t mind and waved me on to lavatory.

What is it about men’s restrooms that too frequently smell like grandma’s creamed corn, with a hint of lavender?  Well lucky me, there is one urinal and one stall – both occupied.  The young man standing directly to my right was all of six or seven years old and earnestly taking care of his business.  The boy stood there staring at me as I walked in, and wouldn’t release his hold on me.  I turned and faced the sink feeling like an idiot for having to just stand in the middle of the room waiting for one of the facilities to be available.  I could still see the boy out of the corner of my eye, and he was shaking his little Happy Jr. at the urinal.

Ever heard the expression: “Shake it once, that’s fine. Shake it twice, that’s okay. Shake it three times, you ‘re playing with yourself.”  This kid was full on playing backgammon or something because he was entranced gawking at me while jerking his thing forward and back.  I felt really really weirded out – borderline bad touching.

I got a vision of my old school bus driver from third grade stuck in my head.  Mr. Roberts, or Mr. Tom as he preferred to be called, had issues getting the bus into gear.  He’d grind that stick back and forth with such force and fill the huge sardine can of kids with a sound of gear screaming agony.  No matter how hard he tried, the rig would never obey his commands.  I wanted to turn to the boy and just yell at him!  “Punch the clutch dude!”  But that would have been inappropriate I think.

Well I have no idea how much time is actually elapsing, but enough for his dad to realize he’s past the third shake and commands him to stop.  “Connor, that’s enough shaking.”  Connor didn’t listen.  “That’s good Connor.”  He kept staring at me trying to find first gear.  “Connor!  Zip up!  You are good, time to wash your hands.”  He finally stopped and turned toward me and the sink.  Unfortunately for me he didn’t pack his wieners and beans away before approaching and I had to move outta his miraculously still-drippy way.

His dad finally exits the stall where he had been taking a leak sitting down.  I know this only because he made quite a loud ruckus getting up off the camode and didn’t flush.  I didn’t give a crap (pardon the expression) and leapt at the chance to enter the small shack of safety, and locked the door trapping me there until they would leave.  By this point the stress fractures in my primary unit for releasing urine… you know my uhmmm “fireman”, were about to give so I busied myself with doing my Hurricane Katrina impression in the toilet bowl.  No need to call FEMA – there were no survivors.

I exited the stall to wash my hands and go get my grub when I ran into Connor again, blocking my way to the sink.  His dad was gone, probably scared off by his little monster’s unhealthy appetite for middle-aged overweight white dudes.  Connor stood there staring again and rubbing his wet palms together with his fingers splayed out… just like you’d expect a kid to do.  He looked like a child, but what lay behind those eyes was something ancient and sinister.  I prayed that his hands were just wet from the sink.  I pushed myself past him and pondered that I could “take him” if I had to.

As I rinsed my hands I heard Connor leave the restroom and I instantly felt relieved.  I think he wanted my hot body all to himself for a few hours and teach me a lesson I would not soon forget.  Alas his child A.D.D. likely kicked in and he moved on to the next thing on his schedule.  When I too left the restroom I didn’t see him at all.  I thought about telling the wife all about it, but who’d believe a story like that?

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