Bryce Laughs in the Bathroom

"Argus! I didn't know you were here," Bryce says. He laughs the alarming goblin-like cackles I heard outside in the hallway. "It seems there has been a bit of an incident."

"What are you talking about?" I say. Bryce popped out of a stall when I came into the bathroom.

"I went to a barbeque this weekend," he says. "All you can eat. I must have put away a half-dozen big burgers on Saturday. Along with more than a couple beers. Well, I just laid the mother of all iceburg shits in the toilet. You're not going to believe it, but the toilet won't flush."

"That's great, Bryce. Do you want a medal?"

Bryce laughs, throwing his head back like a lunatic. I begin to wonder: Can people hear us outside? I hope not. I start to edge for the door.

"Wait!" Bryce says. "Do me a favour. This is the biggest dump I've ever seen. Can you get your camera and take a picture of it?"

"Jesus Christ, Bryce! What the hell for?"

"Please? This is historic - I really need this. Just one picture?"

Inspiration flashes through my mind. "Okay - but I want you in the shot, too. For perspective. Like when you take a picture of a mountain or something."

Bryce howls more laughter. "That's a great idea! Why didn't I think of that?"

"Probably because you're a moron," I mumble.

I'm back in a few moments with the camera. "Okay, get in close, now. You're not in the frame."

"God, it stinks! Am I in it yet?"

"No, get closer. Attaboy. Man, that log is as big as your head, Bryce! How did you manage this?" I say.

"Stop it, you're killing me! Just take the picture!"

"I can't wait to send this out on a group e-mail," I mutter.

"What was that?"

"Nothing, dude."

*snap!*

Nobody Home

"Hello," I yell. My voice echoes from distant walls. I have the vague sense of beams, spiderwebs, and windowpanes painted black just beyond my vision. A bare light bulb swings above my reach.

"Hello! Anybody here?"

"...ere-ere-ere..."

I hear a scuff of feet, and I shade my eyes to peer into the gloom. I see a slouching figure.

"I'm here, man. I stop by now and then. Not for a while, though," Bottle Rocket says. He kicks a piece of trash on the ground, and digs his hands into his pockets. "I get this feeling sometimes, like a worm digging through the hot sponge of my brain. I can't get at him with my fingers. I pry, and all I get are greasy fingernails. Coffee wakes him up. Booze makes him rowdy. Pizza is what he begs for. Loves pizza. And after a few drinks, I can't tell him from me."

"I have a worm, too," I say. "He tells me things. He says his name is Albert."

"He rocks and rolls, man. I woke up one morning, and he was there. I screamed. I cried. I reasoned. I moaned. Then I did it some more."

"After a while, you get used to it. It's like the ringing in your ears. After a while it's the sound of baby's breath," I say.

"The fancy way of saying that is, 'naturalization.' But there is nothing natural about it," Rocket says.

"I'm hungry," I say, pawing my belly.

"Let's blow, man. I know this great burrito place. I have a fearsome hunger for some burritos. I'm going to turn my 'innie' into an 'outtie'. And I want to listen to banjo music on the way."

"Deal. You got the lights?"

"Fuck it, man. Leave 'em on, and people will think things are going down in here. In cahoots and all."

"Nobody thinks anything," I say. "Nobody comes."

But Rocket doesn't hear me. He's already out the door.