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THE PENCOPAL PROJECT

2004-03-09 - 3:33 p.m.

As soon as I opened the door to the ladies room, I knew it was she who�d attempted to usurp my stall. There we were: face to face; Mano e mano; Batty Bush vs. Properly Groomed Landing Strip. Though her chemically bleached platinum blonde hair would indicate otherwise, the dark curliness of her roots was the exact shade and texture of the remnants left all over stall number two.

Her name is Sommer, or perhaps Autumn, but it�s definitely one of those names people who live in homes on wheels like to give their children. Her dye job is not professional, it is Clairol or Revlon or whatever was on sale at the CVS down the street from her trailer park that week. The garish color lies somewhere on the continuum between a yellow highlighter and bright white. Her cube often reeks of hoagies, perhaps chicken noodle soup, or maybe it�s just plain old B.O. Like James Brown said, whatever it is, it�s got to be funky.

She stands before the mirror, putting more makeup on her shellacked face. Age and evidence of hard times war for control of her demeanor. Age wins the battle for her face, and hard times claim her aura. As I ponder the merits of the work release program through which she must�ve obtained her job, the door to stall two slowly closes, indicating that she has just used it. It�s all I can do not run in there with a pair of tweezers, pick up a hair from the bowl�s rim, run out of the stall in triumph, and slap her with the hair, screaming, �Eureka, I have found this bush�s owner. I challenge you to a dual!�

**Okay a little dramatic, but I�ve been monitoring stall number two�s progress for months now. In my boring workday, it�s a high point to imagine an errant piece of a woman�s bush as a gauntlet with which to challenge her to a dual. **

I slowly enter stall one, handling my business slowly to give her time to leave. She�s putting more make up on, which means I could be standing in this stall for the next 20 minutes. As my impatience reaches its pinnacle, I hear her zip up her purse and exit the room. Yes! The excitement threatens to overwhelm me, so I scale the wall between the two stalls using the mini grappling hook I keep nestled in the small of my back, just in case.

**Wishful thinking, but wasn�t that more interesting than envisioning Pencopal calmly walking next door?**

I look down at the porcelain seat, and see�NOTHING! There are no remnants, no dark curly cues, nothing to indicate that bottle blond is indeed Batty Bush.

** Foiled again, Batman, by our nefarious foes. There�s always next time, Robin.**

If there was one person whom I�d suspect of leaving her DNA all over the toilet seat, it was The Platinum One. What�s the lesson here? Never judge a bush by its cover.

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