We met up at a popular bar in San Jose on a busy night when a hockey game was going on at the arena a few blocks away. Brian was already seated at a table when I arrived and he had a pitcher of beer waiting with a glass poured for me. We gave each other a warm hug and I told him he looked good, then I took a seat and we started to catch up. I asked him how things were going and he told me he just had a few really good weeks at work. Then he dropped into the conversation that he was switching to three-ply toilet paper.
I’ve since learned that “Switching to three-ply” is a joke that people sometimes make to imply they’ve gotten a raise and no longer need to use cheap toilet paper. But at the time, I was not familiar with this joke. I thought Brian was telling me that he had a good few weeks at work, and, as a separate thought, his shit had recently become thicker and more difficult to wipe and thus required a sturdier bath tissue.
“Oh. Okay.” I said, perplexed at his choice in sharing this information. I generally don’t mind talking about poop, but that specific image – Brian squatting in his unfurnished divorcé apartment scraping black, tar-like shit off his asshole – didn’t appeal to me at this moment and it probably showed in my tone.
Brian looked disappointed. “I thought you’d be happier for me.”
“Sorry,” I said, and took a swig from my beer. “I just don’t know how to respond to that.”
Across the table, Brian’s face morphed into one of disgust. It’s the same face I imagine him making when he realizes his two-ply toilet paper has shredded mid-wipe and coated his finger in brown shit as thick as beef stroganoff.
“Oh, I see,” Brian said. “Mister-always-has-a-funny-thing-to-say can’t even say something nice to his friend.”
“No, I just -” I began, but paused. “Look, I’m glad you’re getting things together.” By that, I was referring to the initiative he was taking by upgrading his toilet paper to one that could handle his gross, gluey dumps.
“Oh, I see!” Brian yelled – raising his voice beyond a level I was comfortable with at this establishment. “I know you guys were always closer with super miss successful Cara, and I was always just a loser who needed to get things together!”
Before I could respond he yelled “Well guess what buddy?” and stood abruptly from the table, picked up his jacket, and punched his arms through its sleeves. “I AM NOT A LOSER AND I – “
“Wait!” I interrupted in a pleading whisper, motioning for him to sit down. “Please sit. I’m really surprised by how this conversation is shaping out.”
“Oh I’m sure you are!” he snapped back. “Everyone’s surprised things are going pretty well for ol’ Brian. Shocking, right?! You know what. I’m done. You can tell your wife and Regional VP Cara I said hello!”
He turned away and took a few rapid steps towards the door, then stopped, spun on his heel, and leaned closer towards me. “And I know you guys are hanging out with Cara, like, every weekend. You think I don’t have Instagram? And I see her old boss Patrick has been in a lot of those pictures. So what’s going on there?” Then he managed to stop himself. “Actually, nevermind. I don’t care. You people are toxic to me. I’m done with all of you.”
He turned again and stormed out the door, flipping me off over his head as he glided away. I watched his middle finger as he walked, and imagined it emerging from his butthole, brown and ringed by ripped two-ply toilet paper stained in his heavy, wet shit.
I found myself sitting alone and embarrassed. Several people were looking at me, so I stood and told the hostess my friend wasn’t feeling well and asked if I could close out our tab.
After things were settled up I walked outside. It was early but already dark, and crowds of people in hockey jerseys streamed by in the direction of the arena. I took out my phone and hailed an Uber, and was dismayed to see that surge pricing would make my ride home about 3 times the usual cost. But I was shaken from how things went down with Brian so I decided to eat it and confirmed the order.
A few minutes later my car arrived – a Toyota Sienna driven by a West African man with a charming accent – and I crouched low to climb inside its sliding door. Then, as my driver weaved through the pedestrians on Santa Clara Street I made a little small talk.
“Busy out there tonight,” I said.
“Oh, yes sir,” he said politely. “Hockey season – very busy time.”
“That’s good,” I told him. “I hope it’s been good for business for you.”
“Oh yes sir,” he said as his van accelerated up the ramp onto I-280. “Very good.”
And for a moment I stared out the van’s window at the dark silhouettes of the mountains that stood against the blue night sky. Little red lights blinked on distant towers, and the brake lights of southbound traffic made Highway 85 look like a river of red that snaked towards the hills as we passed above it on the freeway. And a jet floated low over the skyscrapers on its way to the San Jose airport, lazily chasing the sound of its own engines towards the runway. And I thought about Brian and I thought about Cara and I thought about my own wife – and for a minute or two on that cold night I felt Brian’s hurt and loneliness deep inside my bones.
“Yes, very good business” the driver repeated, interrupting my moment of reflection with his cheerful voice. Then he glanced slightly back towards me and smirked. “Looks like I am switching to three-ply!”
Surrealist Nonfiction 
Love the whole thing. But, my favorite part is “Posted in toilet. Tagged friends, poop, san jose toilet.” I know that’s not technically part of the post, but its actively hilarious. I still use one-ply. 😦
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