My Morning

(originally an email to kate.)

I would love to relay a story from today. Be prepared. Sit down. And put a trash can nearby.

Today I had a midterm for my Italian Geography class. Last night I fell victim to procrastination. I couldn’t study. How could I when I was really hungry and needed to make dinner, when I was thirsty and needed to fill and refill my mug with Gatorade, when Tiramisu lured me like the Sirens, when my computer screen was dirty and needed a wipe-down, when my toenails needed filing, when Ellen’s one-hour standup comedy routine and Gilly’s little Italian friend were just a click away on the same computer I was supposed to be studying on? How could I? My roommate and I decided to call it quits and instead get up early to prep for the exam.

We made it, bright and early, to the little cafe just near the center where our midterm would be. I ordered a bombaloni (creme filled donut) and a hot chocolate, the latter primarily used for warming up my 10 ice sticks some may call fingers. Two other DU girls popped in the cafe with the same intentions as my roommie and me. We pulled out our notes and highlighters, revved up the powerpoint slides, and got in gear for the next 1.5 hours of studying. All was going well. Until…

Sonia and I were at one little table studying away and I saw, out of the corner of my eye, an older man walk right past us, coming from what I thought was the bathroom. As he left, Soni G (my nickname for her, pronounced “Sony G”) and I made eye-contact. The smell of foul poopies were wafting in the air. I looked over at the other girls sitting at a table across from us and motioned with one hand what I considered the non-verbal code for “shut that bathroom door…the one RIGHT behind you…the one with POOPY smell coming out of it!” all the while keeping my other hand pinning my nostrils shut. But then…I witnessed the culprit…

I looked down on the ground, and along the path–where the man had walked from the “bathroom” to where he was standing now at the cafe counter–like stones laid out along a mountain hike, a trail of plops marked his route. Five or six little piles of black tar poo had made their way down his legs, journeyed out of his pant cuffs, and sat perfectly formed on the floor. And they were rancid. And quite shiny. And no more than 2 feet away from me.

I took action like any good gagging citizen would. I played hopscotch around the black blobs and eventually made it to the counter with a look on my face that frightened the employee. I made some grunting/heaving noise, pointed at the poo, then mimicked throwing up once more. Who says you need to know Italian to communicate with people in Italy ?? Her reply: “Oh Madonna!” Yes, she said, “Oh, Madonna.” Poor lady.

We 4 DU students quickly made our way outside to take in the fresh air: even the smell of cigarettes and pollution were inviting at that moment. The Madonna was forced to soak up the poo with newspaper and sawdust. At one point she took a break to come outside and chat with us, to apologize, and to ask if I’d seen who the pooer was. I put my Italian language skills to the test and told her, “There was man. Old. Where now? No know.” It was then that I noticed she had tears in her eyes. It couldn’t have been my poor use of such a beautiful language, could it? Nah. I concluded she was either flustered from the entire situation or the fumes were so potent they were making her eyes water. Either/Or. Who knows. No know.

The End.

I later found out from one of the other DU girls that the “bathroom” was actually only a closet. They had noticed the man come to the door, open it, peek inside and then leave. He must’ve been looking for a restroom. He found one. On the tiles next to my feet.