wanted was yours.” He sniffed, spat on the ground, then coughed a loose rumbling
cough that came from deep in his chest. It sounded as if it hurt (Curtis hoped so), but the gun never wavered. “I don’t think you set it, anyway. Got your mind on blowjobs
and such.”
“Grunwald, can’t we—”
“No. We can’t. You deserve this. You earned it, you bought it, you got it. Get in the
fucking shithouse.”
Curtis started toward the Port-O-Sans, but aimed for the one on the far right instead of the far left.
“Nope, nope,” Grunwald said. Patiently, as if speaking to a child. “The one on the
other end.”
“That one’s leaning too far,” Curtis said. “If I get in, it might fall over.”
“Nope,” Grunwald said. “That thing’s as solid as your beloved stock market. Special
sides is why. But I’m sure you’ll enjoy the smell. Guys like you spend a lot of time in crappers, you must like the smell. You must love the smell.” Suddenly the gun poked into Curtis’s buttocks. Curtis gave a small, startled scream, and Grunwald laughed.
That Motherfucker. “Now get in there before I decide to turn your old tan track into a brand-new superhighway.”
Curtis had to lean across the ditch of still, scummy water, and because the Port-O-San was leaning, the door swung out and almost hit him in the face when it came off the
latch. This occasioned another burst of laughter from Grunwald, and at the sound,
Curtis was once more visited with thoughts of murder. All the same, it was amazing
how engaged he felt. How suddenly in love with the green smells of the foliage and
the hazy look of the blue Florida sky. How much he longed to eat a piece of bread—
even a slice of Wonder Bread would be a gourmet treat; he would eat it with a napkin
in his lap and choose a complementary vintage from his little wine closet. He had
gained a whole new perspective on life. He only hoped he would live to enjoy it. And
if The Motherfucker just intended to lock him in, maybe he would.
He thought (it was as random and as unprompted as his thought about the bread): If I get out of this, I’m going to start giving money to Save the Children.
“Get in there, Johnson.”
“I tell you it’ll fall over!”
“Who’s the construction guy here? It won’t fall over if you’re careful. Get in.”
“I don’t understand why you’re doing this!”
Grunwald laughed unbelievingly. Then he said, “You get your ass in there or I will
blow it off, so help me God.”
Curtis stepped across the ditch and into the Port-O-San. It rocked forward alarmingly
under his weight. He cried out and leaned over the bench with the closed toilet seat in it, splaying his hands against the back wall. And while he was standing there like a
suspect about to be frisked, the door slammed shut behind him. The sunlight was gone.
He was suddenly in hot, deep shadows. He looked back over his shoulder and the
Port-O-San rocked again, on the very edge of balance.
There was a knock on the door. Curtis could imagine The Motherfucker out there,
leaning over the ditch, one hand braced on the blue siding, the other fisted up to knock with. “Comfy in there? Snug?”
Curtis made no reply. At least with Grunwald leaning on the Port-O-San’s door, the
damned thing had steadied.
“Sure you are. Snug as a bug in a whatever.”
There was another thump, and then the toilet rocked forward again. Grunwald had
removed his weight from it. Curtis once more assumed the position, standing on the
balls of his feet, bending all his will to keeping the stinking cubicle more or less
upright. Sweat was trickling down his face, stinging a shaving cut on the left jawline.
This made him think of his own bathroom, usually taken for granted, with loving
nostalgia. He would give every dollar in his retirement fund to be there, razor in his right hand, watching blood trickle through the shaving cream on the left-hand side
while some stupid pop song played from the clock radio beside his bed. Something by