“Foster, I have an important task for you. It’s going to require all your limited concentration. I know you’ve been working on your mopping skills?”
“Yes, sir.”
Sam held out two hands and rotated them one after another like he was scrubbing something. “Wax on, wax off?”
“Huh?” The reference was lost on Foster.
“Somebody just waxed off all over one of the stalls in the bathroom.”
“Men’s room?”
“Nope, you’re in luck. Women’s room. But cum’s still cum.” Sam pulled Foster in close, as if he was about to trust him with a secret. “Don’t forget to check the ceiling.”
While Foster was still processing that, Sam left him to his work and followed Candice to the dressing room.
Foster didn’t love this job, but he did love not being in jail. Minimum security wasn’t really violent, but it was dehumanizing. When you were bad at fitting in in the real world, it was worse in prison. You never had any privacy. He couldn’t remember sleeping for more than two hours at a stretch during his two years, eight months, and five days of incarceration. And when he had finally gotten out, nobody had been waiting for him.
Finding a job was crucial to his parole. It meant he could stay in his own apartment instead of the halfway house. That time alone let him right himself when he felt off-balance. He still didn’t get out much, and he didn’t have any friends. He remembered having friends at the orphanage, but he also remembered feeling like he was always losing them as they made their way through the system. Eventually, he stopped trying. By the time he’d turned eighteen he’d stopped caring.
Foster propped the door to the women’s room open with his cart. It was empty. It usually was. The employees had their own bathroom next to the dressing room, and while some strip clubs in Vegas got their fair share of female customers, the Tail Spin was generally not one of them. He found the right stall on the first try. He’d had a fifty-fifty shot.
Foster wondered if people carried Sharpies in their purses or pockets for the sole purpose of defiling bathroom stalls. Did it give them a thrill knowing that they had a pen ready to help express whatever twisted thought happened to wander through their minds while they popped a squat? It implied some kind of forethought. They would call it “premeditation” on one of those crime shows. The contributions on the stall door didn’t seem to support that theory, though.
Instead, there was poetry:
Twitter me this, Twitter me that,
No Wi-Fi so here I shat.
And there was religion:
Jesus is Lord
Which apparently struck a cord with another customer who added:
of the Rings
And another:
Spoiler alert!
At least it was bringing people together.
The artistic mood had struck somebody who’d decided to draw a nice, calming beach scene. Two driftwood logs with a clamshell in the middle. Foster was disappointed when he realized those weren’t logs. And the thing in the middle wasn’t a shell. He became disturbed when he realized the thing that wasn’t a shell had teeth .
Surrounded by such masterpieces, it was hard to tell how somebody had mustered up the willpower and imagination to keep an erection long enough to add his own, more biological contribution to the walls. And yes, the ceiling.
Foster went to work, thick rubber gloves pulled tight over his hands like industrial strength condoms. He dipped his sponge into his bucket. He didn’t squeeze it to wring out the excess water. He figured he needed all the help he could get. He held his breath and pressed the sponge against one of the metal walls. It was more of a reflex than a precaution. Like holding your breath right before you rip off a Band-Aid. Soapy water reluctantly bubbled out of the sponge and sloshed down the wall toward the snot-like streaks. That’s when Candice came in.
Foster was startled and pressed the sponge a bit
“Yes, sir.”
Sam held out two hands and rotated them one after another like he was scrubbing something. “Wax on, wax off?”
“Huh?” The reference was lost on Foster.
“Somebody just waxed off all over one of the stalls in the bathroom.”
“Men’s room?”
“Nope, you’re in luck. Women’s room. But cum’s still cum.” Sam pulled Foster in close, as if he was about to trust him with a secret. “Don’t forget to check the ceiling.”
While Foster was still processing that, Sam left him to his work and followed Candice to the dressing room.
Foster didn’t love this job, but he did love not being in jail. Minimum security wasn’t really violent, but it was dehumanizing. When you were bad at fitting in in the real world, it was worse in prison. You never had any privacy. He couldn’t remember sleeping for more than two hours at a stretch during his two years, eight months, and five days of incarceration. And when he had finally gotten out, nobody had been waiting for him.
Finding a job was crucial to his parole. It meant he could stay in his own apartment instead of the halfway house. That time alone let him right himself when he felt off-balance. He still didn’t get out much, and he didn’t have any friends. He remembered having friends at the orphanage, but he also remembered feeling like he was always losing them as they made their way through the system. Eventually, he stopped trying. By the time he’d turned eighteen he’d stopped caring.
Foster propped the door to the women’s room open with his cart. It was empty. It usually was. The employees had their own bathroom next to the dressing room, and while some strip clubs in Vegas got their fair share of female customers, the Tail Spin was generally not one of them. He found the right stall on the first try. He’d had a fifty-fifty shot.
Foster wondered if people carried Sharpies in their purses or pockets for the sole purpose of defiling bathroom stalls. Did it give them a thrill knowing that they had a pen ready to help express whatever twisted thought happened to wander through their minds while they popped a squat? It implied some kind of forethought. They would call it “premeditation” on one of those crime shows. The contributions on the stall door didn’t seem to support that theory, though.
Instead, there was poetry:
Twitter me this, Twitter me that,
No Wi-Fi so here I shat.
And there was religion:
Jesus is Lord
Which apparently struck a cord with another customer who added:
of the Rings
And another:
Spoiler alert!
At least it was bringing people together.
The artistic mood had struck somebody who’d decided to draw a nice, calming beach scene. Two driftwood logs with a clamshell in the middle. Foster was disappointed when he realized those weren’t logs. And the thing in the middle wasn’t a shell. He became disturbed when he realized the thing that wasn’t a shell had teeth .
Surrounded by such masterpieces, it was hard to tell how somebody had mustered up the willpower and imagination to keep an erection long enough to add his own, more biological contribution to the walls. And yes, the ceiling.
Foster went to work, thick rubber gloves pulled tight over his hands like industrial strength condoms. He dipped his sponge into his bucket. He didn’t squeeze it to wring out the excess water. He figured he needed all the help he could get. He held his breath and pressed the sponge against one of the metal walls. It was more of a reflex than a precaution. Like holding your breath right before you rip off a Band-Aid. Soapy water reluctantly bubbled out of the sponge and sloshed down the wall toward the snot-like streaks. That’s when Candice came in.
Foster was startled and pressed the sponge a bit