The attitude-and an attitude from the organizers hung heavy-was that the marathon was good for the city’s image, and good for the corporate sponsors and good for the workers who got overtime, and anyone inconvenienced could suck it up.
To the owners of The WonTon, if you were a bar, walled off from most of your Sunday morning regulars by zero body fat masochists, you were supposed to suck it up.
Most of the marathon workers thought: “It’s Sunday morning. Bars don’t need to be open on Sunday morning.”
But The Won Ton lived for Sunday Morning Punk Rock Karaoke, a sort of gospel choir of the depraved.
Heather Andrews wanted to run the Detroit marathon. She trained to run the Detroit marathon. She paid her entry fee into the Detroit marathon.
It was going to be her first one.
And, like many marathoners, her nerves and her protein bar got into a parking space argument with her bowels.
The portajohn row had a line at each one, three deep.
She did a 180, looking for more portajohns, and the pale red neon sign that said “Open” kissed her on the lips.
It was The WonTon, open to serve their customers that lived in the tiny stretch of downtown inside their marathon perimeter.
And of course, the thirty Punk Rock Karaoke regulars that camped out on the roof.
Heather trotted toward the bar.
She was greeted inside the door by a crust punk named Dill. His very presence between her and her porcelain oasis freaked her out, then she saw his pet.
Dill had a mini sandbox dangling from the massive piercing in his left ear, and his pet one legged scorpion, Loosifer lived in it.
“Can I see your id?” Dill said, and Heather froze.
“I just need to use the restroom,” Heather said.
Dill smiled. “I don’t check ID here. I just wanted to see where somebody who wears spandex for a living lives.”
Heather started to explain that she wasn’t a pro marathoner, and she was about two words in when her brain switched to simply “Ladies Room?”
“They’re genderless, bro,” Dill said. “You can use the potted plant next to the Evel Knievel pinball for all anyone cares. It could probably use the protein.”
Heather nodded and dashed in.
She actually saw the potted plant before she saw a crooked green door that said “Shitter.”
Even though that was her express need, she didn’t find it comforting.
She shuffle-walked toward that door, hoping to see another, and she did.
The aural strain of a band tuning on stage seemed to knock her digestive system into another Defcon level, when she saw a second door. She hoped it said “family restroom,” though that seemed as likely as her holding hands with a Kenyan as they crossed the finish line in 2 hours.
The door said “Other Shitter. Drugs are bad.”
That seemed about as wholesome as the place was going to get.
There were no locks on the doors, but at least any embarrassing sounds would be drowned out by whatever song came blaring from the stage.
Heather didn’t know that the serenade of her angry bowels was being covered by an airtight rendition of Peter and the Test Tube Babies Banned from the Pubs, but she was grateful for it.
Then a hand and some eyes came over the stall.
A second hand came over and dropped a brown bag in her lap.
Heather was absolutely certain she had gotten involved in some sort of errant drug deal.
Abruptly the song ended and a kind voice said “Sorry, I forgot about that earlier.”
“I…I don’t want this,” Heather protested.
The voice said “Not a wiper? Ok, whatever. You do you. I was just trying to look out.”
Heather peered down into the bag.
Napkins.
She looked to her left. No toilet paper. Not even a dispenser. She wanted to kiss whoever that was who dropped the bag, as long as they didn’t have a one legged scorpion dangling from their ear.
The napkins said “Trust Fund Mike’s Radically Authentic Gringo Tacos.”
She never heard of the place, but felt like she might owe them a visit.
Another song kicked in.
Heather couldn’t tell if the singer was terrible or if it was supposed to sound like that.
She would never know it was a combination of both, but what she would soon realize was that it covered her warning alarm on her watch that was supposed to let her know she was due at the start line.
The toilet didn’t flush, despite her best effort, but it was during attempt number three that she saw her watch and realized she was due at the start line in two minutes.
Heather was forced to abandon the flush, and run for the door. Except when she exited Other Shitter. Drugs Are Bad there was a wall of two dozen very wild looking people between her and the exit.
In her panic, she imagined they all had pet scorpions dangling from their ears.
The only clear route to the door was to cross the corner of the stage.
She was in shape, she was ready, she was a half pound lighter than this morning and she was confident she could sprint out of The WonTon and make it to the start line.
She put her head down, focusing only on lifting her front leg high enough to get onto the stage once she got there.
What she failed to realize was at that very moment Colleen Caffeine was placing her acoustic bass on the stage so she could shotgun one more mimosa before she brought the early morning WonTon crowd to a frenzy with a blistering unplugged version of Woman by The Anti-Nowhere League.
Heather put her size 7 New Balance right through the hollow body of Colleen’s instrument.
She was going so fast she didn’t realize until the bass lifted off the stage, stuck to her ankle.
In the greatest twenty eight person harmony in the history of the WonTon, Heather heard a baritone “whoaaaaaa”.
On the bright side, she thought “well, they can’t beat the shit out of me,” then her humor faded and she started to whimper.
The owners of the Won Ton despised the marathon.
The marathon despised The WonTon.
Heather Andrews despised being unprepared.
She had an emergency credit card in between her two running socks.
The WonTon didn’t take plastic, but McCourt’s Music did.
She ordered Colleen a new bass, and Colleen ordered Heather a tequila sunrise.
Three tequila sunrises later, Heather was onstage with Colleen singing Beat on the Brat by her new favorite band, The Ramones.
Two hours and ten minutes later, when she stumbled out of The WonTon, a marathon volunteer rushed to steady her.
“Did you get lost?” they said.
“No,” Heather said, giggling. “I got discovered.”
The volunteer waved for a medic.
“She’s delirious.”
The medic helped Heather to a gurney.
“Did you run today’s race, Miss?”
Heather nodded and giggled.
The medic looked at her watch thinking that it would have been impossible.
Then the stench of tequila clued her into the fact that Heather was breathalyzer-cracking drunk.
“You competed today?” the medic asked again.
Heather smiled, then rolled to her side and puked.
Rolling back over, looking up at the medic, she said “ personal best time.”
***
***
This story was based on a prompt from the real life Choking Susan frontwoman and author Colleen Caffeine.
Her books are available by clicking here.
The prompt was:
-One legged scorpion
-Broken Acoustic bass
-Detroit Marathon.
Gotta find that taco joint...hahaha
Very funny. Four stars.