Pooping with Indiana Jones

INDIANA JONES!  Of course he'd boorishly barge through the door while I sat with the porcelain princess. Of course Indy would with his big, lumbering boots slapping the wet tiles of the restroom floor. I can tell it is him right from this tiny stall, without even seeing his face. You know how? The door slammed the wall and I saw some drywall particles crumble to the floor. I swear, you can tell a lot about a guy by merely observing the way he opens a door. Let me give you a few examples:

The well-rounded door opener: 

This man doesn't just bump into the door with his body and slither through. He firmly, and precisely, with control, pushes forward and, with hand on door, checks behind him to make sure there are no others who might also need to enter the room. After a thorough check, he enters and makes certain the door does not slam shut behind him. This man usually has a wife and kids. 

The jerky, jackass door opener:

This man usually kicks the door open with his foot, swiftly enters and, if somebody is following behind, allows the door to slam upon them. Oftentimes a muffled, quick jab of an apology like, "Oh, sorry, dude" is called back to the victim of the jackassy door opener. This dude usually drives a car he cannot afford. He might also be wearing sunglasses indoors.

The lackadaisical slug door opener: 

This man, unlike the well-rounded door opener, slowly thrusts his weight upon the door and slips through expelling as little energy as possible. More times than not, he will purposely wait for a well-rounded man to open the door for him as to not use unnecessary energy. This guy usually works for a boss he hates. Ice cream is his good friend.

So, you get what I am talking about now. I'd say Indiana Jones falls somewhere in the jerky jackass category of door openers, as I am sure you already assumed. Oh, hold on--I almost forgot--my Indiana Jones is not Harrison Ford. I just call this one kid "Indiana Jones" because he wears accessories that I feel the true Indy might wear such as a weathered, brown fedora hat, random holsters with who knows what in them, and a greenish hemp bag around his shoulder. I had the fine pleasure of meeting this chump in a drawing course. He drew anime dragons while the rest of drew live models or still life displays. Yep, that's Indy.

He has no idea I am in here right now in MY stall, in MY restroom! Yes, that's right. I choose my restrooms carefully and claim them. It's part of my routine as I get accustomed to a new environment such as a school campus or work place. Restroom location and quality is one of my highest priorities.  In this case, it is my school campus. Pooping is a big deal. On the first day I toured this campus I took a stroll around and found a restroom that met my rigid standards. I find that on most campuses there are a few restrooms that are uniquely hidden and glorious. Nobody knows about them. They are infrequently visited and consequently immaculate. I find them. Pooping is a pleasure in these wonderful, little safe havens. And nobody likes to hear the sounds of other people pooping right next to them, so the more isolated, the better. I had discovered my restroom between two funny walls around a weird corner with a fire exit nobody turns to. It has been perfect until just now. Now, of all people, Indy is in here, jingling metal chains and accessories off his body, violently shuffling through the room. And I--I am stuck sitting here waiting for his departure.