*** ‘Vignette City’ is an ongoing project of daily writing and urban photography ***
I actually met Marco Rubio once. It was at the airport.
I was leaving town to go see my kids for awhile.
This was a few years ago. Before people really knew who he was.
But I knew who he was.
I was washing my hands. The water was warm. It was really nice. Nice in a way that you don’t usually expect from an airport bathroom. I looked up. Into the mirror. Shaking my warm, soapy hands. And that’s when I saw him. In his little boy suit. Like we was on his way to the Sears Portrait Studio. But not really. He ducked into the handicapped stall.
As if just seeing him didn’t upset me enough.
But he was taking up the entire handicapped stall.
Which is there for handicapped people.
And it just really made my brain hurt.
I didn’t even shake my hands off. I just turned around. And kicked the fucking stall door open with my boot.
And he was sitting there. With his pants on the floor. Pissing like a woman.
And I yelled at him. I did. I feel bad about it now. But I yelled at him.
I yelled, “You little shit eating sycophant. If you ever use the handicapped stall again, I will break your legs in the wrong direction. Do you hear me? If my hands weren’t clean right now, I would would dislocate your lower jaw from the rest of your skull. You prick.”
And I walked out of the bathroom because my flight was going to board soon.
At least I think it was Marco Rubio.