In which I inadvertently get a Stevie Wonder song stuck in my head just by explaining my trip to the bathroomÖ
I work in one of the Boston Federal buildings. Part of the U.S. Customs Office also takes up residence here. We share the same floor.
Customsí agents are not particularly rowdy; Iíve never had to walk over to tell them to turn the music down or anything. So youíd think there would be no problem sharing some common hallways or bathrooms with them, right? But youíd be wrong. There is one big problem, this lady:
I donít know who she is. I donít know what vital role she plays within our government. Iíve never talked to her.
But I do know this: SHE DOESNíT WASH HER HANDS AFTER SHE USES THE TOILET!
And whenever I have the mischance of running into her in the bathroom, not only I am reminded of that fact, which disgusts me, but also I end up having a bad rest of the week. The Customsí lady is my black cat.
Iím not normally very superstitious. In fact, in a town of Red Sox fans who refuse to change their underwear during a crucial series or must wear a specific color jersey on a certain night, Iím downright prosaic. But this is one superstition, I believe in.
Heed my words: next time youíre in Boston, keep a look out and donít let the Customsí agent cross your path!