Customers lined out the door for their morning fix of java was nothing new to the crew working the Tim Hortons that day. There was no way anyone could have foreseen the pivotal role their dispensing of coffee and doughy confections would have. A middle-aged man with three days beard growth and an unruly mop of hair pushed to the front. His order -- an extra-large regular -- was also not odd, nor his choice of a maple walnut donut; but his grimace caused the counterperson to ask, "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," he replied. "I just ate too much last night." With that she dispensed his order and collected his cash, bidding him a good day and saying, "See you tomorrow." You see, he was not unknown in these parts -- he was what is called in the trade "A Regular."

7:14 AM. Saturday. Condo Building in Downtown.

She awoke like any Saturday morning, wishing she could call in sick and enjoy the beautiful sun and warm weather that had finally assured her that summer was on its way. Like most mornings, she would shower and then begin the art of applying various cosmetics and hair care products to enhance the beauty she was naturally gifted with. Life had been good so far: a steady business with good pay, close friends, and an endless supply of suitors; but she hadn't found that one who she could share her most private intimacies with. Sure, she'd had many worthy boyfriends, but none had shared sense of humor or could understand how she got real personal satisfaction from her job. "You should be..." was a familiar refrain her suitors would begin after getting to know her. The fact she was truly happy seemed not to matter to these men -- they were more concerned about their societal standing than their happiness, and she just wouldn't fit the bill for man up the move on the corporate ladder. As she finished curling her long black eyelashes and prepared to apply the mascara, she kept telling herself, "Good things come to those who wait," and, "Today might be the day."

7:19 AM. Saturday. Kitchen Table.

His coffee finished and donut consumed, he read the paper, waiting for nature to take its course. He'd had a gargantuan dinner the evening before, but something wasn't sitting quite right. It wasn't a sharp pain or pressure -- just a dull lump sitting in the recess of his bowels. The ribs had been cooked slowly, the meat fell off the bones like spores off a dandelion. He'd eaten too many, he knew, but their smoky goodness was something that he just couldn't pass up; and so he gorged himself and was confident that his regularity would take care of any overindulgence he was committing. A familiar gurgle indicated now was the time. He trudged dutifully to the commode, seated himself, and turned on the pocket PC backgammon game -- he whiled away his moments while on the pot, and he expected this to be a particularly long evacuation. The clock ticked, the pressure built; but something just wasn't right.

8:35 AM. Saturday. Parking Lot of Strip Mall.

She was early, but this was her routine. She'd grab a cappuccino at the neighboring cafe and open the store. She liked to be in early so she could clean up anything the girls missed the evening before. She prided herself on having a first-class salon, and didn't cotton to anything being amiss. The most important thing for her was order -- and order was achieved by having a mirror-like finish on the marble tiled floor, the lighting set to an intimate cozy setting, and the brushes, combs, scissors, razors, and hair-care products lined up on each workstation like a surgical theatre. She would spend the final five minutes before the nine o'clock opening going through the appointment book, noting her and her coworkers' schedules and seeing what her take would be. Saturdays were usually quite busy, but with this great weather she was sure there'd be some no-shows. That was okay, too -- Saturdays also had a good number of walk-ins. The unbooked clients were great if they came at the right time, but few people would wait if they couldn't be taken care of within a half hour and she'd learned that it was best to be accurate in approximating the time it took to be served. A person who was upset to have waited too long often would not return, despite getting a fantastic coiffure.

8:51 AM. Saturday. Bathroom (round 2).

So far nothing of import had happened for him. A gurgling was present, and the feeling of being bloated was also present, but it had all come with nary a poof, pop, or plop. This was unheard of. For the last year almost every morning produced a repeat of the day before: some more extended than others, some short and piquant, some laboriously sloth-like, but all with a satisfactory finish. Today was not providing any of that. The coffee had finally failed -- how could this be? With a quick wipe and a stripping of his remaining clothes, he hopped into the shower. Upon exiting the shower and toweling off, he glimpsed himself in the mirror. He wasn't unattractive, but he certainly wasn't a poseur, someone concerned entirely upon his looks. His hair was too long. The last cut had been like the cuts he'd gotten for the last five years: not really fashionable, but serviceable. His love life was nonexistent. Sure, he had a few "dear friends, past loves" he could usually rely on for an evening of frolic, but even those left him feeling less than inspired. Women loved his sense of humor, but since he'd quit frequenting drinking establishments, the ability to showcase his repartee had declined. Co-workers were off limits -- he'd been there, done this, that, and the other, and had paid for his indiscretions. He kept hearing the words of his sister, who kept trying to set him up with her single friends -- sure, some of them were nice, but the whole thing seemed forced. He couldn't be himself in those situations and it just wasn't his way of doing things. He decided he'd get a new haircut -- something a little more fashionable -- maybe get some new summer clothes, do some shopping, and maybe chat up some of the woman he met while out on his rounds. He'd had sporadic success in this regard, and he was feeling backed up in more ways than one.

9:47 AM. Saturday. The Salon.

The woman was atypical, 30-35, with three young boys about eight, six, and four, all needing a haircut, nothing fancy; and really, this would take her little time, but the woman was "in a hurry" and a good customer (she came in every two weeks for herself and thought nothing of spending eighty dollars for what most places would do for fifty), so she asked her coworker to take her 10:00 appointment if the woman would agree. She felt bad about ignoring her appointment book, but sometimes you just had to do what you had to do. The day so far had seen two cancellations phoned in and she was sure as the temperature rose, so would the cancellations. The calculated risk she took in not availing herself to her 10:00 appointment was justified -- the matron was a no-show. By 10:30 she was finishing up the youngest lad when the phone rang yet again with another cancellation. This was not one of her regulars, but today was shaping up to be a bust. She wished she had asked one of her girls take care of the store for the day, but hindsight is always 20:20. A coworker approached her after she had finished with the last boy and asked, "Can I take the day off? I've got no appointments and it doesn't look like it's going to be a busy day." Resignedly, she had to agree, and she bid the young gal a good long weekend. She wasn't the type to begrudge the youth the day off -- it was her salon and paying someone to sit idle made no sense with her already here. Maybe she could close early this afternoon if her 3:00 cancelled.

10:47 AM. Saturday. The Strip Mall.

He'd noticed this salon a few times before. It was in a mall near his usual grocery store and it always seemed busy, with mostly fashionable women pouring in and out.

It wasn't they type of place he normally frequented, but this time he was going to get a makeover hair-wise, and this upscale place seemed like a good fit. He'd noticed the comely young receptionist on passing by several times and even if he ended up getting just a regular cut, at least this place had scenery that most barbershops lacked. He noticed three people seated in the front in the overstuffed leather chairs so he decided to pop into the cafe beside the bank. It was a knockoff of Starbucks -- dark wood, green aprons, and overpriced drinks; but an espresso was something that Tim Hortons couldn't get right. And besides, he hated waiting in places with nothing to occupy him. He paid for his espresso and off he went to see about his hair. When he arrived, the young lady he normally saw at the reception desk was gone and only two women remained seated, with another two tending already seated clients. A dark-haired women in her thirties whispered to her customer, put down her shears, and approached the desk. "Hi, how can I help you?" His pupils dilated as he adjusted to the dimmed recessed lighting of the reception area and took in the visage of this beautiful woman. "I don't have an appointment and was looking to get my hair cut. Something different -- more ahh, ahh, current," he said. She smiled warmly and said, "I can fit you in, but it will be about a forty minute wait. Do you mind?" He replied, "That's fine." She took his name, her brow furled questioningly, marked it in the appointment book, and returned to her client.

11:08 AM. Saturday. The Salon.

As he sat in the sumptuous cushioning of the leather chair, he couldn't take his eyes off the one stylist. She was dark-haired, with blond highlights in her wavy tresses. She was several inches shorter than him but wore heels that made her just slightly shorter. She wore a lightweight silken beige blouse with a plunging neckline revealing a generous bosom, and a tight skirt ending just above the knees that accentuated her feminine charms. "This is waaaaaaay better than Joe's," he thought. As he sipped his espresso he kept looking up at her, watching her long slender fingers stroke down the blond locks of her client as she styled away. She had an enticingly erotic way of performing her magic. He had troubles focusing on his People magazine, something he wished he had never picked up from their magazine selection, but felt he'd look like a stalker if he just watched her work. He cursed himself for forgetting his PocketPC -- at least that was a manly diversion.

11:25 AM. Saturday. The Salon.

As she finished up her client, she gestured to an elderly woman seated next to him to proceed into the back area of the salon where the sinks were. "Just a few minutes more," she said, giving him a welcoming smile. He watched as she walked back with her customer and was mesmerized by her shape, the sway of her hips, the roll of her shoulders, like one of those voluptuous actresses of the sixties and seventies, a femme fatale if ever there was one. She moved with confidence and grace but surprisingly didn't project a haughty image -- she was just gifted with the virtues of unbridled pulchritude. As he sat waiting his turn he noticed that he was alone and the other stylist had popped out for a cigarette (obviously meant to help her keep her figure stick-like, unlike her coworker). As she returned he stood up expecting to be called to her empty station, but she said, "I'm sorry, I'm heading out for lunch. Dianne will be finished in just a few minutes." He sat back down, feeling somewhat relieved and perturbed - had he been snubbed by this young lady, or was this just the way their schedule worked? As she left, he returned to his magazine to find out Brad Pitt may have cheated on Jennifer Anniston and wondered if these were the sort of things that made women leery of men in general.

11:55 AM. Saturday. The Salon.

As she bid farewell to the newly-coiffed senior, he uncrossed his legs and set down his magazine. He began to stand but she said -- with a delicious smile on her face -- "Just a sec. I need to make this nice for you," and turned and began sweeping up the clippings and tidying up with a focus a nuclear scientist would be proud of. As she bent to sweep the clippings into the pan she carried, her blouse and skirt parted at the back by an inch to reveal a leopard skin whale tail. His gaze immediately felt guilty, for he had intruded on her space; but she didn't notice it, and when she was finished cleaning up she beckoned him forward.

12:01 PM. Saturday. The Salon.

She gestured him back to the sinks where she was prepared to begin her work. Idle chatter was made before he was aproned and reclined to lean into the sink as she began running the water. "You look familiar," she said. He answered that he did his shopping in the mall and passed by frequently. She said that wasn't it and asked him to lean back. As he did, she put her hand on his hair and ruffled it back and forth and said, "So. What are we going to do today?" He replied, somewhat uncomfortably, "Something different." He wanted to say, "Make me look like you'd like me to look," but he hesitated and said instead, "I watched you work your magic on others, I'm partial to purple mohawks but I'll trust you to make my look a little more current." She laughed and said, "It's a deal," and began running the warm water through his hair. As she lathered him up and began shampooing his hair, he closed his eyes and breathed in her scent -- a cross between Jasmine and blue hair rinse. Not particularly bad, actually, but not something to write home about. Her long slender fingers massaged his scalp in tiny circles, loosening the stress he was feeling of being attended to by someone so attractive. The warm water rinsed off the first application and sent tingles down his spine. She sudsed up again and continued with the cleaning and he felt his entire body relax. In the background faintly he could hear the warbling of some crappy Elton John ballad and at the same time as he thought this, she said, "Elton John is so lame." He couldn't have agreed more. She rinsed him off yet again and covered his head in a thick creamy conditioner, working it into his scalp with the meditative concentration of a Buddhist monk reciting his mantra. After rinsing his head she began drying him with a fluffy cotton towel. She sat him upright and gestured for him to follow her to her station.

12:12 PM. Saturday. The Salon.

As he sat in the chair, she began pumping the lever to bring him to her working height. The pumping action seemed to cause a rumble in his gut -- not exactly the gut, but lower; and not a panic-inducing rumble, but a warning sign, like the gun fired at the two minute mark in a football game. The end was soon near. He gave it little thought as they engaged in chit chat. It turned out that they did in fact know each other -- they had gone to school together. Her brother had been in most of his classes. She was two years his junior but had watched his antics in her first two years of high school and had been mightily amused. They talked about what he was doing now. She was very straightforward, mentioning how she loved her job. As she snipped away he realized this woman, this absolutely beautiful woman, was indicating she was unattached and was seeking what most of us want in life: love. He was determined that before he left her salon he would ask her out. He was somewhat intimidated by her confidence, but it was also one of her most impressive features. She continued clipping away, her fingers straightening and then holding his locks as she trimmed away. They shared several laughs recounting high school incidents and people, and then she began drying his hair. The heat from the dryer along with the coolness of the hairs on the back of his neck sent shivers down his spine. Those shivers in turn sent electric shocks to his gut -- much, much lower this time. While she finished with the dryer and reached for the motorized clippers, panic spread across his face. One touch from those clippers with their vibrating heads would be all that was needed to send his sphincter into an epileptic frenzy. In microseconds, beads of sweat formed on his brow. His legs began to twitch and he realized he wasn't going to last one more second. Reacting with the urgency of a crackhead on a three-week bender, he said, "I have to use your washroom," and bolted for the back.

Zero Hour. Saturday. Chamber of Horror.

He yanked the door open with the propriety of a SWAT member on a terror raid, panic written all over his face. He dropped his trousers faster than a porn star at a million dollar audition. He swept the apron away from around him and sat on the toilet just as mount Assuvius erupted with explosive force and sound, the first volley reminiscent of the Shock and Awe campaign of Baghdad. Simultaneous splutterings into the toilet threw up splashes of hot scorched hellfire upon his ass and privates. He tried in vain to silence these anal eructations, but the demonic dung denizens residing in his possessed puckered poop chute were only beholden to Beelzebub's bung bastards. Try as he might to quiet the raging rectal recital, his ass sung out an unholy novena of noxious notes, each more pungent and pronounced than before. The turd tidal wave showed no signs of abating. He realized the apron/cape he was wearing acted like an insulating blanket, trapping his groanhouse gases around him. Surely these gasses were now saturating his clothing and forming a mantle of eau de merde upon his self. His panic to sweep aside the apron and is met with the ungodly horror of his own making. To say that it was unholy is an insult to Satan -- it was similar in scope to a burning tire fire, except it had none of the pleasant cachet. The tendrils of ass aroma wafted skyward until they met the low ceiling only to swoop back down and multiply in their intensity. A fecal fog of ferocious fecundity assaulted him and led to stifled gagging -- but there was no fan or solace to be had. As the shit tsunami subsided, he began the laborious task of wiping the wicked wastrels from his defiled dumper. Fortunately the paper was of quality and so absorbed the liquid lava which Satan had spawned. Each wipe was met with a grimace; but this task was just the first stage in his road to rectum revival.

The Dawn's Early Light. Saturday. Ground Zero.

Wetted paper seemed to cool the ass scorching, but time was now moving at breakneck speed. A simple flush was performed but was simply inadequate to rid the crapper of the cornucopia of crud deposited there. A second flush was warranted and produced the desired effect, but there was still a smorgasbord of anal angels adhered to the sides and seat. With no brush to be found, he waddled up paper and returned the throne to as close a visage as previously visited; but the atmospheric anal aura remained. After several scrubs of soap and paper his ass felt fresh, but he understood that now there was no hiding from the criminal crap caper he'd committed. What had seemed like hours had in fact been minutes -- but long minutes, when you couple that fact that each is waiting on the other. Looking deeply in the mirror, he sees himself much like you would see a car scooting down a desert highway at high noon in 120 degree heat -- not clearly and certainly not with the proper perspective, but you know in your heart what you see. He sees a defeated and worn-down victim of this bunghole bacchanal, the only shred of humanity residing in his soul being that of pleading for forgiveness. Please, please, please, he thinks, don't judge what you don't understand, I'm not a bad man, I'm a good man fallen on unforeseen circumstances. His efforts to sweeten or cloud the air of this unfortunate episode by wetting paper towels soaked in soapy water and wafting them through the air only produce a slightly sweeter stench with water droplets all over the place. He dries this up hurriedly and decides to step out from this turdular tomb to face the disdain of an innocent victim of this craptastrophe.

12:41 PM. Saturday. His Own Private Hell.

As the door opens, the difference in temperature is acute. The sweat on his brow begins to cool. The door of the scene of the crime is closed with urgency. He walks gingerly towards the front of the salon and realizes the music is now much, much louder. The air out there is like heaven. He stops. Using a hand to waft air from his chest to his nose, he realizes the futility -- his senses have been blinded by the borborygmus blasts. With apron in hand he turns the corner to see an empty salon, save for the saintly scissoring sculptress seated at the appointment desk at the front. She hears his rustling and turns to face him with a huge grin on her face. "Are you okay?" is all she says, but what she says with the grin and with her eyes is, "I thought you died!" "I'm fine," he replies. "Sorry, it must have been something I ate." He notices the seat in which he was receiving his coiffure has been cleaned up as she motions him toward a new station at the front of the salon -- far, far away from the depot of dung destruction. He sits and is rewrapped in the apron and hopes the remainder of this odiferous ordeal can be completed post haste. All thoughts of carnality have been extinguished in his head; his only thought is fleeing this nightmare. She rewets his hair and returns to trimming the last areas missed before the eruptive episode. As she reaches for the electric trimmer, he notices she is rubbing her nose vigorously -- obvious to him the putrid stench of the pureed poop had infiltrated his clothing. He looks away from the mirror in shame, glancing at his chest, pretending to make it easier for her to trim the back of his neck. As her fingers gently tilt his head from side to side to enable her to finish this job and be rid of this reeking reject, he contemplates what the appropriate parting words should be. Would a sorry be sufficient? Or is it better to say nothing and just disappear? He weighs all facets of each argument and then comes to his conclusion: the less said the better. She finishes up by whisking his neck with a silken brush and unfastens the apron, tossing aside the clipped hair to prevent them from soiling his clothes. She gives him another quick brush and leads him to the front desk for payment and receipt. As she begins the keying in of the bill, he drops a fifty on the counter, says thanks, and is out the door before he can receive a reply. As he reaches his car he turns around looks back. She is seated at her reception desk all alone. She looks up and he looks down and opens his car door.

12:53 PM. Saturday. The Home Of The Brave.

As he puts the key in the ignition, it occurs to him that this represents a moment of life in which there are winners and there are losers. He can see this event as a humiliation, a moment of personal failure -- or he can use it as a moment to express his undying spirit, his laughing in the face of adversity. Leaving his car, he walks to the grocery store. Reaching their flower section, he purchases a bundle of vibrantly-colored cut flowers and pays the cashier as she wraps them in cellophane. Leaving the store with a bounce in his step, like a general off to war, he marches across the parking lot to the salon. Looking up as he opens the door he sees the owner looking down at her appointment book. She looks up with a funny smile on her face, and she is about to say something when he presents the flowers and says, "These are for you. Or, if you like, I can take them toward the back and see what good they do." She bursts out laughing and stands and accepts the flowers while saying how beautiful they are and thanking him because he " didn't have to do anything." He reminds her, "If I didn't do anything, I wouldn't be here now, would I?" She laughs again. She walks out from behind the desk and grabs an empty vase that sits over on a shelf with candles and other accessories. She places the flowers in the vase and puts them on the front desk. They talk a little more, the conversation once again becoming unstilted, comfortable. Plans are made, numbers exchanged, and once again the human spirit is invigorated by chance.