Benny Jay: A Mighty Load « The Third City

Benny Jay: A Mighty Load

June 29th, 2009

I’m drinking coffee in a Starbucks in New York City — far, far from home — thinking about this long email I have to write and send back to Chicago….when the urge hits me.

It’s serious. But not too bad. I think I can hold it off.

So I ask the barista, who served me my coffee, where a fellow can find a computer in these parts. He points to a deli across the street: Up on the second floor they have computers — you can rent them out by the hour.

I follow his directions and wind up in a dark, dank, windowless, airless room. There are three old goats, sitting together at a table. None is using a computer. I figure they’re vagrants looking for a dry place out of the rain. One guy has a nasty cough — it sounds like tuberculosis.

I sit behind a computer and start to write. But the urge returns. I ask myself: How long can I hold out? Can I last an hour — about the time it will take to write and send my email and hustle back to the privacy of my hotel room?

I feel a stab bellow my belly. Nope — this is serious.

I look around. In the left corner is a bathroom. I walk in. It’s grimy. The floors are oily. There’s a fly lazily buzzing about. I don’t care. I can’t be picky. I drop my pants — gonna get it over with really fast.

Then I hear the old goats in the other room. They’re talking about the Yankees. I hear the old man cough. He’s hacking up phlegm. Sounds like he’s in the bathroom with me. I realize that the walls are paper thin. If I can hear him, he will hear me. I’m not normally so picky. But I’m suddenly feeling overwhelmingly self conscious — unable to share my personal moment with the cougher and his friends.

I pause to consider my options. It hits me: The Starbucks! Yes, they must have a bathroom. I pull up my pants, dart down the stairs, cross the street — racing between two cabs stalled at the light — rush into the Starbucks and head toward the bathroom that’s in the back.

The door’s locked — damn! The urge is almost beyond control. I stand in one spot and try not to move. Oh, if only I hadn’t been so finicky. Who care’s what the old goats might have thought….

After what seems like eternity, the door opens and out steps the barista who had served me my coffee. “I gotta warn you,” he says. “The smell in there is pretty nasty….”

I’m beyond caring. I hustle in, lock the door, drop my pants and….

I’ll spare you the details. Suffice it to say it’s a purging, as though a mighty load has been dumped. The relief is beyond my meager ability to describe in words.

I hear someone at the door. They’re wiggling the doorknob, trying to get in. Damn. As much as I’ve done, and I’ve done a lot, there’s still a little more to do. But isn’t that the way of life in general?

I try harder. I’m unaware of time — such is my focus. Someone is banging at the door — his fist like a hammer, pounding hard: Bang, bang, bang. How long have I been in here? Has it been too long? Are they starting to think that I’m a junkie who is shooting up? Or that I have died — you know, like Elvis, sitting on the throne?

I could sit for longer. You know how guys can be. But I’ve spent enough time on this toilet. No need to be selfish. It’s time to relinquish this moment for someone else.

I clean up, wash my hands and rush out the door. There are two grumpy-looking guys waiting in the hallways. They snarl as I pass. I think about repeating the warning that the barista made to me. But I’m too self conscious. Besides, they’ll find out for themselves soon enough….