There is a man who washes dishes at the hotel where I am employed. I am not kidding you, he is seriously one of the most unfortunate looking people I’ve ever seen. I am not writing this in retaliation to his estimation of my physical dimensions of which you are about to read. I just need to impart to you how absolutely crazy ugly this dude is so that there is no irony lost here.
For years I’ve seen him in the back of house hallways of the hotel and done my best not to avert my gaze. I’ve nodded quick hellos on the street on the way to or from or work. I’ve tried not to throw up in the locker room where I’ve seen him scratching his stomach and washing his feet. I’ve always thought, “that is the ugliest non-deformed individual alive”. He really looks like something that might have escaped from Middle Earth.
I don’t want to get into the particulars of his unpleasant visage and unseemly shape. I’ll let you form your own image in your brain. I simply do not have the literary prowess to do justice to this man’s ugliness.
So anyway, he’s ugly. Right? Well, we’re riding the elevator together. It’s late. We’re both leaving work. We’re alone on the elevator. We exchange the obligatory exchange about a long day and how leaving work is always nice. He has a thick Mexican accent with a voice that always sounds like he’s about to spew sediment.
Aside from my usual angst about being in elevators with people I don’t know, I am now wrestling with the guilt I feel about my sentiments towards this man’s mug. I am trying to be very casual, leaning against the elevator wall. Staring down at my totally uninteresting Converse clad footsies. As I stand there, leaning against the filthy metal of the service elevator wall, he points at my slightly protruding carrot top and asks “Whass going on Papi? You no make exercise?”
And yes folks... I've just coined the phrase "carrot top". I want credit. Something good has to come of this.