Sometimes, when we’re having a lazy Sunday, Alan and I like to walk up to The Diner on 18th Street for breakfast.
The other weekend, sitting there nursing a tall Diet Coke, I looked over Alan’s shoulder and did a double-take. “Dude. There are at least two inches of visible plumber crack behind you,” I told him. “Turn around and look.”
Alan – game for anything amusing – slowly turned, his mouth full of egg. Had he been anyone else, I might’ve cautioned him to “swallow your bite” before looking. But Alan has an iron stomach and finds most disgusting things simply “curious.” (Don’t even ask him about watching a caesarean section unless you want to lose your cookies.)
This time, however, he took a big swallow to clear the egg before allowing his mouth to hang open. I took pleasure in watching his eyebrows lift in incredulity. He turned back to face me. “What? The? Hell?”
Exactly. Behind him. perched on a stool at the diner’s counter, was a young woman wearing low riders. Very low riders. So low, that every time she wiggled, her pants would tug down another few centimeters. By the time Alan looked, she was showing more than two full inches of crack.
“It looks like you should slip a quarter in there when you walk by,” I commented.
Alan agreed. “Can you imagine if we were seated directly behind her?” He mimed creating a paper wad out of the straw wrapper and tossing it at her. That line of thought prompted us to assess the people who were seated behind her, right at eye/crack level. Miraculously, no one seemed to have noticed. Yet.
And then our game began… as we wrapped up our meal, we kept surveying the other diners, watching for their reactions as they picked up on their scenic vista. As their lights slowly came on, we were rewarded with some pretty vivid double-takes, elbowing, and smirking whispers. By the time we left, the rear section of the restaurant was filled with tables of strangers all catching each other’s eyes as if checking to see who was in on the joke.
I suppose I should’ve gone over to the girl and – as if I were pointing out a downed zipper or toilet paper trailing from her shoe – alerted her to the issue. Call me shy, but I couldn’t find the words to approach a stranger and tell her her she’d shown her ass to the entire restaurant. Or maybe shy isn’t the word for it. Call me karma.
Maybe I’ll order a bunch of these and hand them out as subtle hints: