(See either previous part, or part 1)
It’s the end of the week, and research has gone fine. I have enough stories, I think, and return to my home. Daily in hand, I walk in and take a seat in the Robinson 3rd floor bathroom, outside stall. Uncharacteristically, the seat looks dirty, so I pull out one of the “cowboy hats” and lay it down on the seat. The tail sags down into the bowl, and I sit.
Shortly after, I hear someone else enter, go through the preparatory actions, then sit down. I guess I have one last interview to do.
“How it’s going?” I’m trying to think about who on the floor is around that I hadn’t just seen watching “South Park” or doing homework.
“It’s going pretty well.” Oh, it’s the other Kevin on the floor. Good times.
“You going to the game?” Stanford football is playing in about 45 minutes.
“Yeah. I’m not looking forward to walking, though.” We chat for a bit about his bike being in the shop, and it’s all very friendly. I, however, discover an odd trait about human physiology. Apparently, God felt that humans shouldn’t be able to operate both their mouths and their sphincters simultaneously. As pleasant as it is to talk to Kevin, I’m not getting anywhere on my primary purpose. The conversation dies down, and I go back to the newspaper.
“I’m glad that whoever it is leaves the newspaper in here,” he says a few seconds later, hearing the ruffle.
“Yeah, that’s me.” I’m pretty proud. Last year, I would often go right after dinner when I had a copy of the Stanford Daily in hand. Frankly, I wouldn’t read it otherwise, but the Daily has become a regular fixture in my day by being paired with a very necessary activity. Since then, I’ve become a very passionate reader and have hopefully increased readership by leaving it in the stalls when I’m done. “Want a page?” I separate part of it, and reach under the stall to hand it to him.
“Sure, thanks.”