“The soap dispenser is the foam kind,” he continues. “I’m not a fan of foam soap. Foam soap doesn’t feel like you’re actually cleaning anything. It feels like you’re rubbing a cloud between your hands and hoping for the best. Give me liquid soap. Liquid soap has substance. Liquid soap means business. Foam soap is the participation trophy of hand hygiene.”
“Jesus Christ, Tex. I’m trying to use the bathroom.”
“And I’m letting you. I’m at the urinal. This is a multi-user facility. We’re both using it. Independently. Like two adult men who happen to be in the same restroom at the same time. This is normal. This happens in restrooms across America every day.”
He finishes. I hear the flush, the footsteps to the sink, the foam soap dispenser.
“See, this is exactly what I’m talking about,” he says. “Foam. Look at this shit. I’ve pumped it four times and I’ve got a handful of clouds. This is decorative soap. This is soap for people who don’t actually get their hands dirty. I’ve been wrist-deep in a smoker firebox at five in the morning. I need soap that can handle soot and charcoal and the general grimeof a man who works for a living. This soap could not handle a light dusting.”
He’s not leaving. He’s standing at the sink washing his hands with soap he despises because he’s not going to leave me alone in a public restroom. He won’t say that. He will never say that. He will stand at the sink critiquing foam soap until I’m finished and back in the chair. If I fell during a transfer in a gas station bathroom and he was standing at the truck respecting my autonomy, he would never forgive himself.
Tex doesn’t desert his friends.
I finish and do the transfer back to the chair. It takes me a minute. The toilet is lower than the one at rehab, which means the angle is different, and I have to adjust mid-pivot. My right hand slips on the grab bar. I catch myself, re-grip and pull through. Not graceful, but functional.
“You good in there?” Tex asks. His voice is casual but I can hear the edge underneath it, the readiness. If I said no, he’d be through that stall door in two seconds and the lock wouldn’t slow him down.
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“Outstanding. I’m going to try the aggressive hand dryer now so I can tell Stormy about it. How do you turn it on?”
“Stick your hands down in it,” I tell him.
The Dyson fires up with a roar that fills the entire bathroom like a leaf blower in a closet. Over the noise I hear Tex yelling.
“GODDAMN! This is extremely aggressive. This hand dryer has a personal vendetta against me. My hands are dry but at what cost. It took some of my skin with it.”
I wheel out of the stall laughing. Tex is standing at the Dyson with his hands in it, his hair and beard blowing back from the force of the air, making a face like a man skydiving against his will.
“Stormy was right!” he shouts over the dryer. “This deserves the half star deduction. This machine is hostile!”
“Turn it off.”
“I can’t! It’s attacking me. How do I turn it off?”
“Take your hands out.”
He pulls his hands out and the dryer dies. His hair is pushed back on one side.
“I survived,” he says, smoothing his hair down. “But Stormy needs to be informed about this.”
I wash my hands at the accessible sink, and look at myself in the mirror. I’m good. Things are good. I’m halfway home, laughing and managing my own body in a gas station restroom while my best friend provides commentary.
We get back in the truck. The transfer is getting easier every time. Fourteen seconds for the chair.
“So, let’s get to the good stuff,” Tex says when we merge back onto the highway.
“Meaning what?”
“Benji. I’ve patiently waited all this time until now to hear the story. Tell me everything. Because I’ve been getting pieces of this and that on the phone and none of the pieces match up into a picture I fully understand. You say things are good, but I need the whole story.”
“Things are good, Tex. Really good.”
“Define good. Good like you’re having a nice time? Good like you’re falling for this guy? Good like you’re already gone and you haven’t admitted it yet?”
“Definitely the second one, maybe the last one.”
Tex glances at me. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. How far gone are we talking?”
