Halfway through the meal, I went to the restroom. I squatted over a hole and tried not to let any part of me touch the walls, which were frescoed with brown brushstrokes. This was the very good reason I was carrying toilet paper in my cargo pocket and why no one at that table was eating with their left hand. My thighs burned with fatigue from squatting, but in my mind I laughed at the idea of having a business lunch with people who wiped their ass with a bare hand. Oh well. It wasn’t like cowboys in the Wild West were carrying Charmin Ultra around with them either. Out here, even taking a dump
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