"Restrooms for customers only," advised the sign, so we went in and bought two cinnamon nut things and a chocolate dodger. I felt aggrieved about spending the money since I didn't have to go, but I also didn't want to just sit at an empty table, inspecting crumbs and concentric coffee rings, waiting for Cedric to conclude his interminable unloading process. These periods of enforced loitering could easily last as long as twenty minutes, sometimes extending past the half-hour mark. I'd witnessed wheelchair-bound paraplegics rolling themselves in and out of special-needs toilets faster than it took Cedric to merely negotiate lowering his buttocks onto the seat.
These lengthy ablutions left me wondering what the real root of his problem could be: some sort of weird hygiene hang up, perhaps? Or sensory malfunction caused by an acute aversion to bright, fluorescent lighting? Possibly even unconventional undergarment unfastening arrangements? Whatever the cause, I always found myself staring desperately at the locked door, willing my ears to hear the sound of a liberating flush from within, rather like a weary boxer praying for the gong that signals the end of another punishing bout.
Waiting for Cedric was not only incredibly tedious experience, but also an infinitely embarrassing one, usually involving either suspicious staff or irate fellow-patrons also requiring urgent use of the facilities.
"Does he need some help in there?"
"He needs help, but not of the kind he can get in a public restroom, unless there happens to be a Dopamine vending machine hanging on the wall next to the paper towels."
This never failed to produce a scowl: "He's not shooting up is he?"
"Oh absolutely not. Don't worry, he knows your needle exchange program is for customer use only."
And when Cedric finally did emerge, he was as nonchalant as could be, as if he had only been gone a few, brief moments. So eventually, while marooned beside the restroom door of a Starbucks, I decided to roughly calculate how much of my life had been wasted waiting for Cedric to evacuate his bowels. The answer was: at least forty-eight hours. Two whole days of existence crapped away by that inconsiderate oaf.
"Excuse me, er, do you know long is your friend going to be?" the worried Barista asked, a frowning, antsy customer peering over his shoulder.
"I've no idea." I replied. "He might be doing his drugs. I'd call the police if I were you." Then I devoured the last of my chocolate dodger and walked out, vowing never to go anywhere with Cedric ever again.
