Sounds from the Stall Next Door

A very short, only pathetically humorous passage about a man and the constipated person he offends. Divided into pages to make more pleasurable to read.

I sat plopped down on the white toilet seat, slowly massaging my temples to try and block the sounds I heard coming from the bathroom stall adjacent to mine. I was trying to finish up my business as fast as I could, but I was afraid my mind wouldn't last that long. As if the short, painful grunts and gasping weren't already eating away at my sanity, they were accompanied by frequent indulgent sighs of relief, countless exhalations of "ahhh" and "ohh yeah" that had me tempted to bash my face against the stall door in front of me. Finally, after thirty seconds of what sounded either like someone going through labor or the person next to me dying, which at that point would have been a gratefully accepted mercy, I snapped.

Slamming my fist against the side of the bathroom stall that my oh-so-quiet neighbor shared, I yelled, "Hey, if you're not trying to [poop] out your intestines, could you please KEEP IT DOWN?"

No answer. Honestly, the only thing I cared about was the abrupt end to the obnoxious racket that had me wanting to stab screwdrivers into both of my ears. It didn’t matter though; I was already about to leave. I flushed the toilet and zipped back up my shorts, walking to the sinks after slamming the stall door shut behind me. I turned on the faucet, but my hands simply hovered before the stream of water spewing into the sink. My eyes were on the man who had just opened the stall next to mine from where those sounds had been coming.

Not only was his face so red I expected it to burst open at any moment, his veins popping blue and wide from his skin, and his entire body covered with stinking sweat, but he had failed to do something vital—something that, after all of those grunts and sighs, was absolutely necessary if the people walking into this bathroom in an hour weren’t going to drop dead from the stench of feces.

“You didn’t flush,” I said simply. Again, he didn’t reply, but he did waddle over to the sink as far away from me as possible. The door to the stall he had been in swung open, and through the mirror I could see that there was nothing in the toilet; the water was still crystal-clear and had no floating brown turds that one might expect in an unflushed toilet.

“What the…” I turned to the man and asked a question I would most likely regret. “Are you constipated?”

The End

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