Cherish The Little Moments

I pull a boot out of my duffle. The hand-to-sole contact transports me to the last disgusting place the boot was. The men's room. As this sinks in, its implications become tactile. Starting at the point of contact, spreading up my forearm, my shoulder, my neck. I'm overtaken by the sensation of drowning. Drowning in an abyss of old, cold, stinky urine.

Sinking deeper. I can still see them. Backs arched. Laughing. Their wavy silhouettes flicker in the torchlit cavern. Pelting the crushed beercans. The piss demons. 500 strong. Encircling me above. The horrifying synthesizer intro to Styx' "Too Much Time On My Hands" though muffled is audible -bassy- from these depths.

I put my lunch in that duffle. I brush my teeth with that hand. Goddamn piss demons.

Lunchtime outside the Taqueria. I watch Dumbass set down his $10 burrito. He leaves for a napkin. Pigeons descend. Lunch is now up for grabs. He runs back arms-a-flailing. He swats them away, but not before one walks on his burrito.

A filthy pigeon. A creature with no regard for what it walks in or on just walked on his burrito. He looks pretty bummed. I totally understand. Half his lunch hour (it's 2x longer now).waiting in that line. If he goes back, it won't be for a free burrito. He's fucked. His choices are: don't eat, or burrito con paloma pie. Best drown that shit in salsa.

Skip ahead. He's sitting across from his coworker. He looks at her. Watches her chew ."I won't be able to taste it," he thinks, spreading the salsa. He carves a big bite.