Blowing Chunks

Our shop is part of a large building, and we share bathrooms with all of the other businesses in the building. The layout of the terrain is this: you unlock one door, and enter a small hallway, which has the backdoor of a Chinese restaurant on the left and the locked bathroom door on the right.

On one occasion, I was washing my hands in said restroom, and could faintly hear what sounded like retching and moaning from outside. If I had any common sense, I would have opened the door fractionally, instead of plunging head first into the unknown. But, naive young soul that I was, I pushed open the door, only to be faced with a nightmare brought to life.

Two men were in the hallway. One was holding the other, who was vomiting violently. Everywhere. On the walls, on the floor, and even, it seemed, on the ceiling. They turned to look at me, and like in a horror movie all I could hear was the blood rushing in my ears as the panic set in (that, and the chundering). Also like in a horror movie, I tried to run, to get to the exit door, and I just made it. I could hear the vomiting closely behind me, and it felt like it was a tsunami approaching.

I tried to put my key in the lock, but my hands fumbled. That fumbling cost me my life. Or, at least, the life of my pants. The sickly man let loose, a wave of vomit splashing over my shorts and sneakers, and, worst of all, my bare legs. He met my eyes, but was so overcome with blowing chunks that he didn’t manage an apology. I finally managed to turn the key and slammed the door behind me. Once safely inside my shop, I grabbed the spray ‘n’ wipe and doused myself liberally. But no amount of scrubbing, or later on, Napi-Sanning and chemical bathing, would ever remove the memory.

I don’t know if it was inebriation, food poisoning, or something else that caused the man to hurl his guts out. I lean towards food poisoning, as the head chef at the restaurant next door has questionable hygiene. A male staff member I used to work with confirmed being in the bathroom when the chef used the facilities (not for a wee, you understand) and exited without washing his hands. I’ve seen the same chef spit flem over the ground on several occasions, which to me is just icky.

There is a second set of toilets in the building, which I have used ever since. But just one glance down the alleyway to that deceptively innocuous looking door triggers the memory of the massacre. So much chunder. So, so much chunder.