No Place For Ray

I arrived early for a business luncheon at the Concord Mills Olive Garden. so I borrowed a newspaper from the bartender and headed for the restroom. Scanning the headlines as I entered the empty facility, I found a cozy stall, and closed the full-length, louvered door. 

I was folding the  the business section when I sensed something was wrong …or maybe it was when I spotted the feminine napkin dispenser jutting from the wall.

I tossed the paper down, and jumped up… or tried to… 

My right leg was numb before I finished page one.

I doubled over, adjusting my balance with little hops on one leg, massaging the other one with my hands, while holding up my pants with my elbows.

I was close to blacking out from the blood rushing to my head, when a quartet of ladies chattered in and parked in front of the lavatory mirror. 

The sudden clamor would have spooked a weaker man into giving himself away. 

Instinctively, I had the presence of mind to create a diversion by snapping upright with enough force to knock the dispenser off the wall with the back of my head.

It clattered to the floor. I mean my head. The dispenser had already arrived.

(Damn that hurts!) ...     

Dead silence… I could feel a knot sprouting.

(That hurts like hell! ) 

An ad hoc committee formed outside my door.

(Is this how a concussion feels?)

“You OK in there, honey?” asked the hastily elected spokesman. 

(Am I supposed to go to sleep or stay awake with a concussion?)

Again, in the measured cadence the “Taxi” cast used to give DMV instructions to Reverend Jim,

“Are---you---OK---in---there?”

“OK,  thanks…”, I squeaked in a gay Mickey Mouse impersonation.  
 

Then heard barely audible, “Bless her heart”, as the committee adjourned for lunch.

 "Bless her heart" is Southern code  for "dumb-ass"

Next a covey of well-heeled females clickety-clacked in.

At least my pants were up and I had the full use of my legs in case I had to make a inglorious exit.

I couldn’t see anything, but I could hear everything. So I listened and learned… a lot.

A little background…

For men, a bathroom has one purpose, unless somebody left the sports page.

Reading is a solo act. Talking is a team sport.

Guys don’t talk to anybody in the bathroom unless their blood alcohol level is, roughly, equal to gin.

Women are polar opposites. Actually using the bathroom facilities takes a backseat to talking. The reason a trip to the ladies room is a two-woman job, sometimes more.

At least forty women have visited this room in the last fifteen minutes, and that’s not counting the ones making round trips.

And boy, do they talk!

They talked about shopping, generally, shoes, specifically, and other women…cattily.

By far, the most popular topic was shoes.

Two women can discuss shoes for hours; three or more… indefinitely.

I never realized that shoes were so fascinating. No wonder my girl, Mary, has filled all of our closets with them. They’re not just shoes anymore. They’re conversation pieces with heels!  

I can honestly say that I have never stood, or sat, next to a guy in a bathroom, and said, “I just love your shoes. You’ve got to tell me where you found them!”

Maybe Larry Craig could use that as a defense.   

Just before the bathroom was clear enough for me to duck out, a gaggle of women burst into my stall, dragged me to the floor, and hosed me down with mace. Then, two of them sat on me while their accomplices pulled out my hair, kicked me, and tried to shake the life out of me.  

“Stop it! Stop shaking me!”

“Honey! HONEY!! wake up!”, pleaded my friend, Mary, as she gently rocked my shoulders, “It’s just a bad dream.”

“No Aunty Em, it was real!”

I got up to wash the sleep out of my eyes.

Mary gave me a hug from behind, then paused before asking,

”Raymond,  where'd you get that big lump on the back of your head?”