Man’s search for a place to poop

Sometimes you just can’t win. You got a Plan A. And if that don’t work you got back-up plans, Plan B and Plan C. But then, they don’t work either.

So I gotta poop. But it’s Christmas break, the students are all gone, and just about everything on Telegraph is closed. But this sports bar, Pappy’s is open. Great! I order something cheap — bacon cheese fries — just so I have an excuse to use their facilities after eating. So my plan is working like clockwork. . .

But then I notice the bar is already closed and the joint is almost completely deserted. So I ask the cashier how late they’re going to be open. “5 o’clock,” he says. I look at my watch — it’s 4:40. By the time I finish eating they’ll be locking up the restrooms. So I change my plans. I tell the cashier: “I’ll have my order it to-go,” That way, I can grab my food and I’ll still have like 10 minutes left to take care of business before they close. So my back-up plan seems full-proof.

So when my order’s ready, I grab my bag of food and head down the stairs to the restroom in the basement. I’m cutting things pretty close, but I think I got it covered. . . As soon as I opened the men’s room door I smelled smoke (that should have alerted me that something was awry). I push the stall door open — it’s not locked or anything. And there’s this wingnut sitting there on the toilet, nonchalantly smoking crack.

I shut the stall door. And rush back up the stairs muttering curses under my breath. Head back outside to the Ave. It’s starting to rain. . . I head up the street, mulling over a back-up to the back-up to the back-up plan.


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