The Muffin Man
My business partner, Todd, and I drove to a client meeting one morning. This particular client’s offices were just over an hour’s ride from us. Todd had taken a late night flight home from the West Coast the night before, and our meeting was to take place first thing that morning, so he was tired. Having awoken only shortly before I picked him up for the drive, face drawn and haggard, he got into the car along with his breakfast.
“You look like crap,” I cheerfully pointed out to him as he more or less fell into the seat.
“Nice to see you, too,” he replied, fidgeting with the seat belt.
“So how was the flight?” I asked while tuning the radio to something between The Kinks and Willie Nelson, the musical poles that separated us.
“Long.” Todd wasn’t much of a conversationalist first thing in the morning. Or after four hours sleep.
As I drove, he opened the paper bag in his lap and took out a bran muffin. We both had large cups of coffee. Billy Joel sang. Todd chewed. I sipped.
We were good enough friends and smart enough business partners not to try to fill the time with inane conversation. The tendency for the talk to digress to who said what about whom was as inevitable as gravity, and gossip usually led to somebody getting irritated about something. Madonna serenaded us, turned it over to Mariah Carey, who then let Steely Dan take a turn..
Todd changed the channel and chewed some more, as I drank. He found a station playing Bonnie Raitt and that sounded okay to both of us.
Late summer was giving way to early autumn, so we drove with the windows closed against the early chill in the air. That was until the bran muffin began to assert itself as Todd sheepishly grinned, glanced over and said, “Sorry.” From then on we drove with the windows cracked open, me breathing through my mouth and grateful it wasn’t raining.
All New Jerseyans know there is no correlation between distance driven and the time it takes. Few if any roads run straight north to south, or east to west. The road designers bent and twisted the pathways they paved, with one eye on the land’s natural contours, and the other with sadistic glee over the confusion caused. If you flew up high enough and look down, the lines of the roads would probably spell “bada bing.”
The abstract expressionistic street grid, coupled with the most people living per square mile of any state in the nation, frequently results in traffic delays, congestion, accidents and impasses. In addition to these normal hurdles, the drive to the client seemed much longer than it actually was thanks to that muffin.
Once we arrived at the clients’ headquarters, I went to the front desk in the lobby to sign us in while Todd made a mad dash for the bathroom. Apparently the noxious fumes en route to our destination were a mere harbinger of what was to come.
I signed in, had them call upstairs to the people expecting us, and proceeded to wait. The very large cup of coffee I consumed on the trip was having the inevitable effect, and while my urge was tame in comparison, it compounded exponentially as Todd took his time.
The reason I had to wait for my turn to use the restroom was that the client cruelly had only one in their lobby. This was a big company, with a big lobby and a lot of visitors. This solitary lavatory served the needs of men and women, employees and guests, young and old, those with needs cosmetic as well as biologic. Anybody in need of anything remotely bathroom-oriented had to first undergo a test of patience. This commode accommodated only one at a time.
The wait was starting to make our car ride seem brief. What was he doing in there? He was pretty tired; maybe he fell asleep. I knocked. “Just a minute,” he replied, not knowing who was at the door. I decided to remain anonymous, in the hopes he’d move faster if he thought the incoming patron might be someone of importance to our business with this company. I considered disguising my voice to urge him along, but figured I would probably laugh, he’d lose his concentration, and have to start over.
So I waited. I shifted from foot to foot. It didn’t help. I was reaching the point of holding my breath and gritting my teeth when at last I heard the welcome rumblings of activity. Amazing how much like music a flushing toilet can sound under the right circumstances.
Todd emerged with that same sheepish grin he’d given me in the car. I, on the other hand, under duress of my own bursting bladder, could barely see or hear. I pushed him aside and rushed through, reflexively closed the door and pressed the lock button. I may not have been able to see or hear, but I could smell.
The stench was foul, greeting my nostrils on the back of a Louisville slugger. I gagged, eyes first opening in horror, and then as if entering a room of exploded onions, they watered. The mere taking of a breath would probably cause lung cancer.
I moved as quickly as possible to go and get out. Rushing and flushing I reached for the doorknob and yanked the door open with the same force as if surfacing from too long below water.
While I gratefully inhaled that first sweet breath of untainted air, my eyes set on a most unexpected sight. There in the doorway, waiting to enter, and in fact reaching for the doorknob as it swung away, stood a tall, well-dressed, remarkably attractive woman.
Instantly I realized what she would think as the Chernobyl cloud flowed into her face. Alongside me like a shadow rushed the malodorous residue of Todd, only she didn’t know that. She would only recoil from the smell and associate it with me, the fellow emerging red-faced and flustered.
I paused, desperately wanting to say, “I didn’t do it.”
But even in my frantic state of disarray I realized how ridiculous that would sound.
“I didn’t do it.” Right, Jeff. Just stencil guilty across my forehead, right after pathetic.
I looked across the lobby, where my soon-to-be-ex-partner was doubled over laughing. He saw the whole scene unfold, and regretted only that he had no camera, or studio audience to bear witness.
I tried the same sheepish grin that Todd had used, but somehow I don’t think it worked. I might as well have been George in a Seinfeld episode. She grimaced as she strode by, stepping over my dignity now lying in a rumpled heap on the floor.
I went over to Todd, who was still gasping laughter and said to him, “You got a long walk home ahead of you.”
His simple reply increased my agony. “I wonder if she’s in our meeting.”