29 Nov Laura Bardsley
HAVING AN AVERAGE WEEKEND
Nothing would have gone wrong if John had just stayed home.
I keep telling the guys to ditch him once and for all, but somehow he always pulls a Farva and shows up. If John hadn’t been there, no one would have asked questions.
I had it perfect, timing and all—around 12:30, after the late night dollar-drink fiending, we would walk in nonchalantly, all order cokes, and one by one leave to the washroom. In our backpacks; a rubber hose, a bottle of lighter fluid, and 3 large mason jars wrapped in cloth as to avoid clinking. Inside each jar, 750ml of human feces.
Part of the requirements for participation in the piece was that you had to collect the poo on your own. I call it guerilla modern art. This was my second attempt.
The guys, my bros, they were truly intrigued by the idea of mixing up feces and lighter fluid, saying a chant as I lit the pile with my lighter and some hairspray I found in my sister’s room.
And not some silly chant, either.
It was going to be ‘Hama sambhava hō hahē haim tō yaha shambhava hai.’ It’s a Hindi phrase, roughly translating to ‘it’s possible because we are possible.’
I didn’t want to send too heavy a message, you know? I think the work kind of speaks for itself – mcdonalds, now serving a burning pile of shit.
But then John had to show up as Brian was heading to the washroom and smack him on the back. I heard 2 of the mason jars crack and shook my head in disgust as Brian glared at John. The idiot was shouting.
“Where my dawgs atttt!!!,” as he thrusts himself upon the washroom door. I had gotten up during the din and tried to block his entry, but he was rampaging and took no heed to my requests.
“What the fuck are you trying to pull, you shit eating motherfuckers?!”
“Keep your voice down, dude,” I said as calmly as I could, considering. “It’s a modern art piece, and you’re on the cusp of blowing the whole operation!”
But as I stared into his vacant eyes, John started to gag. The smell would have been quite intense for a rookie, I’ll concede that, but anyone with artistic integrity would have kept their composure. But John, our dear tag-along pal; he didn’t want artistic integrity. Just shameful, what he did next. The piece was 2 steps away from glorious completion, and with an olfactory overload to match.
He had to puke up fucking half-chewn nacho fries right beside my magnum opus. He had to ruin the whole composure. I bowed my head, as did my accomplices, and left the burger establishment.
Last I saw of John, he was doubled over beside the pile, my beautiful pile, dry-heaving. The poor employee who has to clean that sad mess of a boy up…
I almost want to go back just to apologize for John’s behavior.