Chuck’s robotic revelation was still on my mind, and my memories of our lunch together made my job in this sterile and noisy place seem somehow less real and completely unimportant. To top it off, my bladder was calling attention to itself in no uncertain terms and I felt a sudden onset of irritation and impatience with one Bruce Cornsley, shift foreman and pig-headed ass.
    I must admit I rolled my eyes slightly and let out an “Oh, fuck you.”
    Brushing past him, I jostled him and his imperiously crossed arms. The smug expression pasted to his face, such a nice match for his cosmetically grinning brother, morphed into shocked outrage.
    “I’m not late yet, man,” I said, “I just gotta go to the bathroom, ok?”
    Yanking the mens room door open, I almost leaped into the aromatic confines within.
    “Wait just a-” SLAM. Odd how satisfying such a childish act can be. Momentary images raced across my mind as I strode toward the urinals: cold pavement, bare feet, a 17-year-old self shivering in the Michigan winter following a poorly thought out late night drama. One thing I learned that bygone night was that the key to slamming a door properly is making sure that you really want to be on the other side when the deed is done. Considering my urgent condition, I had no choice in the matter this time around.
    I already had my belt loosed and my zipper halfway down before I heard the inevitable whoosh of displaced air as Bruce threw himself into the room behind me.
    “I don’t know who you think you are, mister,” –what? who actually talks like that?– “But I expect respect from my crew.”
    By this time my waters were beginning to join the Detroit Municipal Sewers in their headlong rush towards lake St Claire. As I looked down, I read the urinal cake cover for the millionth time this year: “Use a Condom, Your Life Is In Your Hands.” I was just reminding myself that I once thought it a funny thing to piss on as I began to feel hot breath upon the back of my neck.
    “That little stunt is going to get you written up, Joseph Minnetola.”
    I mumbled, “I’m peeing here. Do you mind?”
    “Not if you don’t mind screwing up your perfect record with a write-up!”
    Ignoring him, I continued my steady progress in a pregnant silence, his presence radiating heat and self-righteous anger behind me. One moment. Two moments. It was then that his finger jabbed me between my shoulder blades, throwing my aim off and watering the wall next to the urinal. Fuck this, no one touches men while they’re going, its one of the cardinal rules of proper restroom etiquette!
    “Bruce, you had better back off right now or I swear to god-”
    “Oh?” his voice was right next to my ear, “you threatening me, Minnetola?” I drew a breath, about to make that write-up worthwhile when…oh, God. Something was touching my neck and it felt like warm, greasy makeup and small, stiff hairs. I felt subtle movement against my ear and with a sick feeling I realized it was a tiny set of lips, opening and closing over…and over…
    In one fluid and reflexive movement I tucked myself, still dribbling, into my underwear and lurched away from Bruce.
    Without thinking, I began frantically rubbing my violated neck and earlobe, yelling, “Get away from me, you freak! God-dammit, your creepy brother touched me!”
    Bruce froze and stared at me. Quietly then, “….freak?”
    Seeing the hurt in his eyes as he reached tentatively toward his brother’s head and began to stroke its little orange wig made me regret my words for an instant. Only an instant, though. He was a jerk, a sadist, and he made more than twice the money we line workers did. I wondered idly if Bruce claimed his clowny twin as a dependent on his taxes. Probably did. I caught myself in a disdainful sneer and smoothed my expression too late. He had seen the raw contempt there and knew it for what it was. Balling his hands into tight, white-nickled fists, a short, gasping sob escaped his lips. He then dashed out of the bathroom, leaving me alone with my moist underpants.
    I spent a few futile moments attempting to position myself so that the electric hand dryer could get a chance to dessicate my drawers. No use, I ended up giving myself a wedgie, nearly cooked my bologna, and ended up with underwear just as damp as before—only warmer.
    I cinched up my britches and left to return to work…and to Chuck.