Friday night and the bathroom stunk. I went in to wash my hands and immediately gagged; a female customer looked at me guiltily and sidled by me, without, I noted, washing her hands. Choked by fecal miasma I left & stormed into the dressing room.
“Don’t poop in the bathroom! Jesus Christ! Why is that so hard? Just don’t poop at someone else’s workplace!”
Baby started laughing hysterically. “What are you talking about?”
“Bitches taking horrible giant dumps in the bathroom! Where we have to go to! Customers! Wait! Just wait and go at home! You know what? I was in a relationship for four years and I bet I only pooped while she was in the house five times. And one of those times I had food poisoning. We were just not on those kinds of terms and that was fine.”
Other girls started laughing too.
“That’s insane,” Baby said.
“I don’t even care. Probably. But! There’s such a thing as Too Much Intimacy.”
Baby was dying by this point. Bad smells make me crazy, I can’t be rational about them. I used to work in a tiny dive bar with a girl I unaffectionately nicknamed Skeletor who looked like a walking corpse. Skeletor kept herself going with copious amounts of coffee and invariably had a bowel movement two or three times a shift. It was like clockwork. I know about this because the toilet was in the dressing room and the bar was so small that everyone knew. It was awful. It made me want to die. It wasn’t even worth being the hot, non-stinky one to put up with that.
“Everybody poops, Red!” Baby hooted. “Everybody poops! It’s a book! didn’t your parents make you read that when you were little? Everybody poops, everybody poops.” Baby was maybe a little drunk. She exited the dressing room caroling, “Ev-ery bo-dy poops.”