A kid was standing at the lavatory when I went into the men's room near the food court at our mall. He had a wad of wet paper towels in his hand, working hard to scrub the left leg of his dark brown Old Navy cargo shorts.
There could be many explanations. Maybe grease dripped from a juicy burger. Or gravy from chicken nuggets, or a splash from a milk shake. But all of us have been there and know that the odds were on it being "something else."
I got a good look at him because he was so busy he didn't even seem to be aware of me. Young, quite young. The sort of "young" that shouts, "I just discovered myself last week." Big pile of untidy blond hair. Full, puffy lips. Legs a little hairy but arms and face totally smooth. And working hard, very hard, on that pants leg. So hard that he was concentrating on his job like it was a matter of life and death. He worked feverishly as if his favored pants were now his worst enemy, he needed desperately to regain their allegiance to his apparent innocence
After scrubbing with wet towels, he patted the place with dry ones. Then walked to the hand dryer and tried to aim it at his damp pants. He tugged at the length of his white T-shirt in attempt to cover the damp spot, the horror on his face prevailed as he paced about checking his appearance in the mirror from various angles.
I restrained myself from saying anything, of course, but my mind was full of good advice for him as I walked out: "Dude, you better run home and throw those pants in the washer before yo mama guesses what you been up to in the mall restroom!"
Oh, the dangers of getting a little relief!
MARTIN-
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