I enter the restroom. To relieve myself. No cause for alarm. Or so I think.
I see "Sam Elliott" (as I refer to him in my mind) busy at the child's urinal, his pants down to his ankles.
What?! Why?! Is he out of his mind?! I don't know.
Maybe he's worried that he'll pee all over his pants? If so, I'm sure that dropping them to the urine-soaked floor is not the answer.
This isn't normal. Things could get ugly. They're already ugly.
Should I leave and alert security? No, he's just an old man doing the best he can, I convince myself. Just act casually and handle what you came for. Purge it from memory later.
The stall is occupied. That leaves only the adult urinal next to Sam Elliott. Be cool, I tell myself. But this is so not cool. Eyes on my own business. We'll make it through this somehow.
This is not okay.
Despite my late start, I finish first. Just as well, I figure. Now to wash my hands quickly (but thoroughly), so I can get the hell out of here.
I see him in the mirror. Without lifting his pants first, he turns around and away from the urinal. What the devil? Is he some kind of pervert?!
I have to go. Now!
Without even bothering to fully rinse the soap off my hands, I turn for the door, grabbing a few paper towels along the way. As I make my hasty exit, the last thing I see in the periphery is Sam Elliott swooping in to catch the flow from my faucet before it can automatically shut off.
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