Caution: Not For the Squeamish

I worked with a chap this morning - let's call him Louis - who ...

No. Wait. We can't call him Louis, Ms J. That's his real name. We'll call him ... John. No, that's too common. Frank. No. Phil. Yeah. OK. We'll call him Phil.

So I was sitting in the coffee shop in Hamilton this morning when Lou - er, Phil waltzed over and plunked himself down heavily at my table.

"How ya doin' this morning, Dale?" he said.

I busied myself with a paper napkin for he'd jostled the table and slopped my coffee all over the place.

"Fine," I said. "I'm alright, thank you."

He picked a dry napkin from the table, held it to his nose, and proceded to blow his nose for what seemed like five minutes. He blew and then he honked. Then he snorted and sniffled and blew some more. I tried to concentrate on my breakfast bagel, but the sound he was making was disgusting.

"I wish I had a t-shirt with a big "M" on the front," he said finally.

I chewed my food tentatively, raised my head slightly and looked at him over my glasses.

"Why?" I asked, although I really didn't care.

He was still wiping his nose, and with the same napkin.
I remember thinking God, it must be full by now.

"I could be a super hero, eh? Mucous man."

He grinned and there was wet paper and snot on his upper lip.

"Shut up, Lou .." Er, sorry. "Shut up, PHIL. And wipe your nose."

The hand came up and wiped with that same disgusting tissue and I nearly lost what breakfast I'd eaten. He only made matters worse. I made a silent vow not to look at him again the entire morning. I didn't finish my bagel, but I did manage to drink some coffee. I drank it, Ms J, but I didn't enjoy it.

He's not a kid, this fellow. He's a grown man. And I had to sit with him in the cab of the locomotive all the way back to Toronto. He spent much of the trip, coughing and hawking up great gobs of green goo which he spat ceremoniously out the window. My stomach did cartwheels.

I have to go back to work in an hour. I hope he's feeling better this afternoon.

***