A couple of years ago Brendan and I were eating at yet another Mexican dive, enjoying the quesadillas, Coronas and blaring jukebox music.
As we were getting ready to go, I headed to the single unisex restroom.
It was, putting this mildly, comically filthy. (It’s always fun to discover that after you eat your meal).
So, I knew I had to “hover” over the loo, lest I come into contact with any epidemic-spreading germs. But, because of the precarious situation (slippery floors – yes, it was that dirty), I lost my footing mid-hover and had to grab a hold of the sink, which was right next to the toilet.
Unfortunately, this caused the entire sink to fall out of the wall. It plummeted down to the filth-covered floor with a loud crash. But, fortunately, the jukebox music obliterated the sound of the crash. After I recovered from the shock, I ran out of the restroom, ran to Brendan, and said “We have to go. NOW!”
He obliged, and we sped off in my car, thankfully without the resturant’s staff in tow, waving a bill for the broken sink.
However, why would they do that? Since no one ever used it, in all likelihood that sink is still sitting on the floor, my guilty fingerprints smudged on it.
(And no, we never went back there, and yes, I had to pee that badly).