The note is damp from the sauce but the words are still legible:

men’s restroom

Third stall from door

Switch behind toilet

You read the note about 16 more times. In between each time you look over in the direction of the restrooms, as if they personally sent you this note. But the toilets didn’t send you the note. The waiter did.

Now, you’re thinking you might know what’s up. You’re thinking that maybe the dull waiter noticed your natural attractiveness. That would make sense of the first two lines in this weird haiku. But “switch behind the toilet?” Was “switch” what the kids were calling it these days?

Then something unexpected happens. Your friend Freddy bursts into the restaurant like it’s on fire and he’s here to save you. He’s wearing his usual floral tank top with shorts, baseball cap (backwards), and his backpack crammed to capacity.

“Mick!” He calls across the room, annoying everyone. Including Mick.

You’re Mick. I mean, I’m Mick. Mickey Smith Carson. But you already knew that, right?

Anyway, so Freddy trots over to me...sorry....

Freddy trots over to YOU and lands in the booth seat across from you. It’s awkward and loud.

“You should probably take the backpack off, be a lot more comfortable,” you say.

“Oh, right,” Freddy squeezes out of the straps, but not with the banging the table a few times, causing more patrons of this respectable establishment to shoot nasty eyes at us.

“I’m so glad I found you! When you weren’t home and not at your dad’s house, figured you’d be here. This is your go-to,” Freddy says with a proud smile.

“That it is,” you say. You ask him what’s got him in such a frenzied state. It’s a silly thing to ask, because this is Freddy’s normal state.

“Mick, I got it! I got the recipe right! This is gonna be the big one!” He starts digging through this back pack.

“Which one is this?” You ask, because Freddy is always scheming up new gadgets or new snack items. He actually isn’t half bad at it. He was on that one show that one time. But nothing has every really panned out. Good thing for Freddy is, just as you are naturally attractive, he is naturally rich.

“I’m talking about the candy! The one I have you to thank for the inspiration,” Freddy says.

He pulls out of his back pack a huge rectangle slab of what looks like hard clay and it slams heavily onto the table.

“Freddy, I love ya, but that is the least edible looking thing I have ever seen in my life. It looks like it could crush my skull,” you say.

“Oh ,it totally could! That may to the most impenetrable substance ever created! I call it Impenetrum! That’s not the candy, though.”

He finally finds what he’s looking for and whips it out. He holds up a small plastic bag with about six round, white and blue marbled balls.

“Behold!” He says, “milk bombs!”

You nod approvingly. You do like milk.

“It’s a sucking candy and after a few seconds, when the outer layer is sucked off, it bursts in your mouth!” He claps his hands together.

“Hey, keep it down with all that sucking and bursting talk,” you say, feels the eyes of the room on you.

“It’s a milky explosion!” He yells. Freddy cannot be contained. He pulls one out of the bag. “ Here, you gotta try one.”

“Sure, but I’m still in the middle of my dinner, which reminds me, I gotta tell you about something...”

“Come on, your an adult! Eat a piece of candy in the middle of your dinner!” Freddy says, thrusting the white ball towards you.

“I just want to eat this first,” you say.

“I came all the way here!” Freddy says.

“Exactly! Just chill with me, and then I’ll try it,” you say, “Order something.”

“No, I already ate. Come on man! Just try it! Your already drinking milk!” Freddy insists.

You begin to reconsider because your a great friend. “ it’s not too sugary?”

“Heaven forbid!” Freddy says. “I don’t want to say anymore about it. You need to experience it!”

You take the milk bomb and your just about to pop it in your mouth when Freddy says quickly, “ I guess I should tell you their might be a slight chance it doesn’t explode when it should and it’ll happen in your throat or gut.”

“Is that bad?”

“I don’t know. Probably not.”

“Have you tried it yet?”

“No way.I gotta kid to try it and the milk came out his nose and ears and he screamed and ran away.”

You put down the milk bomb.

“But I’m positive that’s gonna be a rare occurrence! Please, I need somebody to try them! I would but I’m lactose intolerant,” Freddy says, handing me the whole bag.

You tell him you’ll save them for later and stuff the bag in your pocket, but not too deep. If they happen to fall out while walking home, well, oops.

You catch him up to speed on the weird note in your soup.

“Maybe you won something! Like a door prize,” Freddy says. His appetite miraculously returns and he eats off your plate.

“Maybe it wasn’t meant for me,” You say. The waiter hasn’t shown her face since.

“You ordered off menu. How could it be for anyone else? The chances of somebody else ordering exactly what you ordered has gotta be, like, trabillion to one!” Freddy says.

“I guess I should just go check it out. Should I go check it out?” You say.

“You go check it out,” Freddy says, mouthful of Alfredo. “I’ll wait here. Im gonna order something.”

“Maybe you should order what I did, see what happens,” you say. You stand up from the table, starring in the direction of the bathrooms.

You look back at Freddy.

“You went to see my dad?” You say, doing a great job at staying emotionally even and cool.

“Yeah,” Freddy says. “He’s doing good.”

“That’s good,” you say.

“Been a while?” Freddy asks.

“Yeah,” you say. A volcano in your core is threatening to overtaken you now, so you quickly leave the table, regretting you pushed the subject.

And here I am bringing it up again! You don’t need to know any of that. I have some daddy issues, don’t we all? Just forget I said anything about that.

You walk to the bathrooms. You walk in the men’s and your eyes dart to the third stall.

It’s occupied. You can see black shoes and blue jeans.

The other two stalls are vacant. You act casual and wait for the stall to vacate, leaning against the wall. You watch the man’s black shoes shift and he grunts.

Another enters, glances at you as he heads for a urinal. As the man relieves himself, he slowly looks at you again, surely wondering why your standing there.

You shrug and give a sheepish smile. “Favorite stall,” you say, nodding towards the occupied commode. The man gives you that look you used to get from all the cute girls back in high school. The disgusted one.

The toilet flushes finally. After a minute, the door opens and a stout man with balding hair exits, giving you an “all yours” expression.

You enter the stall. The toilet is still refilling with water, churning on the inside. The sound of the faucet flowing is coming from outside the stall at the sinks.

You figure it’s now or never. You squat beside the pot and reach your hand behind the toilet and feel around. You grimace. This is of course the nastiest part of the toilet. Even janitors often neglect to clean behind here.

All of a sudden you feel it.

It’s a switch. Like a light switch in the down position.

You listen. You hear what sounds like the stout man drying his hands with the automatic dryer. You wait. It stops and you here the door open, then close.

You flip the switch.

And the wall behind the toilet slides away, revealing a black tunnel.

————————————

To Be Continued