There are times when lifes scenes are more then one can bear. When the unexpected visuals make you wish you were somewhere else. Any where else. Staring through an unfiltered telescope at the corona of the sun perhaps. There are many stories at work that are based on actual events. Most have stayed as nothing but the odd amusing anecdote. Some reach the apex of tales, the realm of lore. The "Swoop and Grab", which it is infamously known as, is one such tale and I, your narrator have been witness to this bone chilling event not just once but twice. Therapy was long and arduous. The cold sweats and nightmares have abated but the unwelcome memory remains. Allow me to relate.

The mens bathroom in our factory was fairly generic. Beige floor to ceiling wall tiles, gray toilet stalls with doors that don't close correctly and dark painted floors with a filthy floor drain and a rank odor of heavily drinking men happily relieving themselves. Stand up urinals line the wall, some with dividers between them and some without. Ours, to my total dismay, were without these privacy barriers.

I was standing alone at the far end of the urinals, staring at the wall, whistling a non-descript tune. With business in hand, relief of the days pressures was fast upon me.

Cliff the inspector, the portly central figure of our story, was a fine figure of a couple men. Standing a stout 5' 8" and tickling the scales at a measly 400 pounds, waddled into the bathroom. Though the skin on his face was stretched to the limit of its expandability, he still had copious wrinkles on his ample cheeks. Instead of many chins, he had one bullfrog chin that lead past his sweaty neck into his non-existent chest. Pendulous breasts hung down on either side of the crown of his girthy guts. His lower belly hung down to rest on his thunderous thighs.

Usually, the lethargic Cliff would enter a stall and complete his business in private, but not on this day. On this day, he felt the need to grace me with his presence at the urinals. Trying not to look, I could see Cliff out of my peripheral vision. He lumbers up to the urinal and with a grunted effort, undoes his old leather belt with the holes stretched to elongated form and drops his billowing pants to the floor. His shirt tail covers, what I can only imagine as, a cottage cheese infested buttocks. He takes his right arm, "Swoops" under his ponderous belly and with considerable effort and wheezing, lifts it up.

I didn't want to see this. The bathroom gods were against me that day, my friends. It was like driving by an accident with a decapitated body. You're grossed out but just can't look away.

With the other hand, he reached under his gelatinous, quivering stomach, and after a moment or two of furious fumbling in his nether regions for his rarely seen member, he made the "Grab". His constant wheezing and pig like snuffling calmed while he proceeded to relieve himself.

I shook off and bolted with great speed, wildly shaking my head, hoping the image would be far flung from my memory cells. Alas, it has been indelibly stamped in my psyche forever.

Cliff has long since retired and I no longer enter the bathroom in fear. Other people have seen this unholy event. Sometimes we comfort each other through laughter. There are other stories of Cliff that have not yet made the honorific "lore" category. His slow saunter turning into a giggling, energetic flow as he salivated over the cafeteria food, filling his inadequate tray at the feed trough. His inability to inspect in size challenged areas of locomotives. Many a chortle has been shared by onlookers.

There will be more Cliffs someday at work. You never know. Maybe I'll be in Cliff shoes in 10 years. I doubt it though.

Alfred Molinga