Sometimes, the truth really stinks
Yesterday, I went to wash my hands at the local coffeehouse. Since there was only one bathroom, I hopped from foot to foot until the door finally swung open and the previous user exited. In retrospect, I probably should have taken the fact that the guy, Rusty, left the bathroom noshing on a hot dog as a bad omen. Instead, ever the prisoner of hope, I entered anyway and was sucker punched by the most ungodly of smells. (No, seriously. Based on the smell, I’m truly convinced that my lavatory predecessor made some sort of twisted pact with Satan!) In addition to the pungent odor, Rusty also forgot to flush the remains of whatever rodent he had consumed during his morning feeding. Traumatized, I quickly scurried out and returned to my seat, crying and rocking in a fetal position for 20 minutes.
In my haste to leave the gates of hell, I accidentally left the door open, forcing the café to experience Rusty’s remains. Immediately, I could hear everyone talking about Rusty’s untimely deposit: “That’s so sick!” “I can’t believe he did that in public!” “I’ve never smelled anything like that in my life!” Entertained by the Seinfeldian banter and emboldened by the unexpected early morning solidarity, I turned around to co-sign their comments. As soon as our eyes met, however, everyone stopped talking. Even worse, their faces transformed from indignant to embarrassed. And that’s when it hit me: They thought I was the one who tore up the bathroom!
Although surrounded by strangers, I felt determined to prove my innocence. Desperate, I mouthed to a group of them, “It wasn’t me. It was him.” I then gestured toward Rusty, who was too busy scarfing down his food to notice what was going on. The group looked at me and then at Rusty, seemingly trying to figure out whom to believe. Instead of confirming my innocence, they simply shrugged their shoulders and stood up to leave the cafe. Suddenly irate, I looked back over at Rusty in the desperate hope that he would save me from my unmerited embarrassment. Instead, he looked up from his pro wrestling magazine and gave me a devilish smirk and a sly wink before making his second trek to the bathroom. Although I could have made a last-ditch effort to prove that I had been set up, I decided to accept a sad reality of life: sometimes the truth never gets told.
Marc Lamont Hill is a FoxNews commentator and assistant professor at Temple University.
