June 20, 2017
mischief (mis’chif) n. 1. Behavior that causes discomfiture or annoyance in another. 2. An inclination or tendency to play pranks or cause embarrassment.
3. At around nine pm, after the sunset prayer (Maghrib) is called, I gather up my food and lock in to break my fast. Even though the days cooled this past week, I have continued preparing an iced mocha style drink to have with my meal.
I plug in my hot pot before I pray and break my fast. In the small coffee cup I mix generic freeze dried Colombian, cocoa, creamer, and a packet of sweetener. To save my own coffee I use as many of the single serving packets of “Deep Rich Instant Coffee” from our breakfast bags as I can scrounge to offset my stores. I add hot water to make a concentrate that I pour over ice in a larger plastic mug. Voila, iced mocha.
I started out struggling to not make a mess. When I poured out the contents into the larger cup, it would splash over the sides. Disaster. When I poured too carefully it would just dribble down the front of the small cup. Also disaster. For the first week or so I repeated this precarious failure laden mixology over my toilet bowl to preemptively ease the cleanup. I’m real smart though. So after the ninth or tenth round of pouring in abject terror, I figured out that if I filled the cup half full of ice, the splash wouldn’t come over the sides. Real smart.
Tonight when I was giving my cell a once over cleaning, I discovered a single rivulet of brown running down the outside of my toilet bowl to a dried and crusted spot of mocha pooled on the floor. Make no mistake, it looks exactly like poo.
When we move from cell to cell, for various reasons, first order of business is to clean away as much of what remains from the last guy as is chemically possible. Most guys would bleach, and then torch a cell, every time they moved if they could. The best moves are the ones where the last guy was relatively clean and had just made a weekly pass before having to pack up. Dust bunnies are common, so is a certain amount of grit collected on the floor. Open bars for one of four walls means your cell is never really “clean” for very long.
Keep in mind, some of these guys are hanging on by a very thin thread. Sure, a lot of guys are slobs, and might never even notice anything collected on the almost backside of the toilet bowl. But most guys I know, the adults in the room, they are going to end up nearly cheek to bowl with that miniature trail of sugared and chocolate infused caf dried to the back of my commode. It would ruin his day. It would ruin my day if it was me that found it, and how.
There’s no way anybody’s going to believe that it’s not the remnant of an “almost made it” trip to the back of the cell. An overshot of brown artillery that got missed in the disarmament after the war. If it were discovered, there would be no persuading the victim of the pseudo-dookie’s true provenance. Especially if I wasn’t here to lend my credibility to the alternative (albeit true) explanation. The minor chaos for the lack of actual offense is tempting…alluring even.
I’m going to clean it up. By the time you read this, I probably already have. But in some alternate reality, some guy down the road lost his mind for his discovery of what he thought was my shit left for him to clean up from the back of my toilet.
That’s a little bit funny…I don’t care who you are.