|Photo from BAM|
Yesterday, my beautiful bride and I went to one of our favorite haunts, Books-A-Million. On any normal day we love to buy a cup of coffee (two café au lait's with skim milk, please), browse the magazines (she grabs copies of Chronicles, First Things, and the National Review, he grabs France, Analog, and Mental Floss), check out the clearance books, and make silly comments about the covers and titles we see. As Christmas nears, we add pumpkin spice to the coffee order, search for Christmas presents for our kids and other family members (another book?), and ooh and aaah and giggle at the calendars. (She always teasing that this year she'll get him that pinup calendar, he always knowing she's just teasing.)Here is where I would like to add an awkward bit to this quaint shopping scene:
He was gone. But another man was standing there, waiting to come in. He was not a manager. He was not an employee. He was just another booklover like myself. I began to move to one side when it hit me. Was he really a book lover? Or was he some graffiti artist, looking to spread his filth across the walls of the bathroom. Those walls were my responsibility now. The manager had let me in. I was the bathroom user of record. I would be blamed for any damage incurred. But what did that mean? Should I block the man until I slammed the door shut, thereby locking him out of the restroom? A noble act indeed if the man had vandalism on his mind. A rotten act indeed if the man had only seconds to make it to home plate, so to speak.
current website logo.
I'm not kidding.
To protest the new
Seriously, no one wants to have to tell the world they have to use the restroom.
I gotta go.