Poirot

"If you had a tattoo that wouldn't matter

If you had a shaved head that would be cool

If you came from Spain or Japan or the back of a van...

I'd say now I'm getting somewhere,

I'm finally breaking through..."

-- Jason Robert Brown, "Shiksa Goddess," The Last Five Years

--

Had to work on a Sunday, and had to pee after work. Stopped on my way back from Sawyer Point at the library on Scott St., hoping to relieve myself in a place where you don't feel obligated to buy something just because you need to use the restroom. Maybe I would pay my fines, too--who knows?

The restroom has one stall and one urinal and both were occupied. I don't make it a point to be very observant in bathrooms, but I noticed the guy at the urinal was old, well-dressed, and (so it appeared, anyway) not peeing. He heard me enter and craned an ear in my direction, as if to say, "Hold on, I got this." I stood in the corner to wait it out. He bent his knees, wiggled his shoulders, took deep breaths. He sounded frustrated: the air came slowly in and was blown out so fast it whistled. He jounced his johnson.

I wanted to tell him that there really was no hurry, that I'd held it for two hours and could easily go a few more minutes. The back of his neck was red. He gave up and a hand searchingly came up to flush. It was automatic, but he fumbled with it anyway, until it started to go on its own and he stepped back. I kept looking at the floor and as the flushing water slowed to a trickle, I stepped up. I knew if I just went it would be like taunting him, the poor old guy, so I maintained until I heard the sound of damp paper towels hitting a trashbag and the creak of the bathroom door.

--

Tattooed a bunch of kids down at KidsFest today and puppeted a parrot named Poirot. I get my kicks whenever I can, especially at these free-for-all days: standing in a booth for hours, peddling theatre brochures and snagging parental interest by hooking the kids:

"Who wants a Children's Theatre tattoo? You, buddy? Can he have a tattoo, Mom?" (Mom nods.) "Great, have a seat. Let's see your arm. How old are you? Seven, huh, so are you going into second or third grade? Third! Wow! Have you ever been to The Children's Theatre? No? Well, here's a brochure..."

And so on.

The kicks I got were mainly through the parrot, which I picked because TCT is doing How I Became a Pirate in the fall. I pecked at heads, clamped the beak down on impertinent fingers, squawked at the insolent ones who just walked up and smacked the parrot upside the head. But this, too, became automatic, a senseless string of questions and comments, delivered of course in a glottal parrot voice:

"What's your name?" (Kid mumbles and you don't hear the name.) "That's a cool/pretty name. Would you like to pet my head?" (Kid pets head.) "That feels so nice. Would you like to scratch my chin?" (Kid refuses.) "Pretty please?" (Kid starts to cry; the charade is over. To mom:) "Oh, poor guy, I think the parrot scared him. Well, here's a brochure..."

And so on.

--

When we were taking our stuff down so the next booth occupiers could set up, a woman from our sponsoring organization approached me. We introduced ourselves. She said, "So what's next for you on this Sunday?"

I hadn't thought about it, so I said the most interesting thing I could think of. "Probably gonna read The Brothers Karamazov." After a beat, I added, "I'm very excited."

"Really?" she said, her sunglasses masking her. "That doesn't sound too exciting. It's so sunny."

I mumbled something about maybe doing that reading in a park, and she nodded and changed the subject.

--

Not to spite her, but I think I will go to a park with my book, actually. It beats all on days like today. With a quartet of busy weekends coming up (camping, DC, then two weeks in Nebraska) and then the mad rush of summer camp, shows and auditions extending into August, I figure I only have about three weekends to myself left here. Big move coming up; big river keeps on flowing. Gotta rest on your raft when you get the chance.