Oh my god, I’m gonna sweat through my fucking shirt. Staggering to my feet, I head for the bathroom and lean in against the sink as thunder crackles away outside. My pupils seem to have filled my eyes and I want to tell the sad man with the combover and the tremor next to me that I could love him like a brother if he needed me to, so I assume our old friend Molly has indeed arrived.
It was supposed to be better than this. Four or so hours of fast music from your favorite band? That’s at least vaguely worth the comedown from X. A rain-out five minutes into the show, five seconds after you took the damn pill? Well that’s just tragic, now it’s a real lose-lose.
The above is a truth I confirm as it takes me a full fifteen to start pissing, though I do take some small solace in the ever-present and seemingly forever-pained wincing of the gentleman in the stall next to my own. Various graffiti (graffita?) on the inside of the door tell me that Jesus, Muhammad, and my mom have all been here. I roll my eyes. Bullllllllshit, no way would my Orthodox Jewish mother be caught dead with either of those guys.
After washing my hands quite thoroughly, I again lather my palms with sticky, floral soap and reach them up under my shirt to alleviate the drug sweats that I’d been hoping the rain would’ve washed away. No such luck. The poor guy still in the stall behind me lets out a howl and stamps cowboy boots against the floor. I tug at my collar, but still I can’t suppress a smile as I walk out of the restroom. Nothing good is happening in the Richmond Taco Bell, but I seem to have it better than most.
Harry Katz is doing his best to fit in out in the Bay Area but he’s not sure he could survive a cross-country car drive with anyone. His work has won him the Bocock/Guerard Prize and occasional parental approval.
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