So I’ve just returned from the Harbor House, the 24-hour Dana Point diner where I do much of my late-night writing.
Shortly before leaving, I stopped in one of the two bathrooms to pee. The light turned on, I looked to my right—and there it was. A sink, filled with someone’s recently discharged vomit.
Now, as befitting its status as a 24-hour diner, and taking into account that college kids are home for the summer, it’s not altogether shocking that someone might puke in a bathroom. I mean, hell, the place serves alcohol, and I’m sure it’s a pretty terrific post-partying spot to chase down tequila or rum with eggs and bacon. So, again, I begrudge no one for having the mouth volcanoes.
What gets me—like, truly gets me in the worst possible way—is the audacity of A. Vomiting in the sink; B. Leaving it there for someone else to clean.
In this case, the guy with the mop and pail was the Harbor House’s late-night buser—a Spanish-speaking man in his 50s who is always warm and friendly when I plop down to write. I know neither his name nor background, but I do know he’s far too old to be wet vacuuming some 17-year-old’s chunks. I was genuinely horrified by the scene, and apologized to the staff on behalf of the asswipe.
Ugh.
