The Poop That Lived...in a Sauna

The Encounter

Saunas repulsed Daniel. Confined in a hot, humid space with sweaty strangers draped laxly in communal towels? He'd rather buy a boat and then watch it be chainsawed in half. There was something enticing about that, actually. The meaningless, expensive destruction. He pictured the crunching sound of the wood splitting, the screech of metal on metal as the hull caved in, observing from the shore in a mink coat or whatever garment a wealthy elite with a penchant for metallic carnage would wear. Daniel swigged his Gatorade.

The loudspeaker announced closing time. When soggy revelers slurped their way to the exit and Daniel could start mopping out the clammy rooms. Four days a week he'd peel moist hairs off the walls they'd been plastered to like some deranged kid's idea of papier-mâché. He wondered, as he started in on the aromatherapy steam room, what kind of people left globs of salt and mud congealed gooily in the corners of the rooms, assuming it was their right, even duty, to leave the bathhouse with a damp memory of their visit. Every time Dan put away his mop, finished with the night's work, he thought about just taking a little piss on top of everything. A little sprinkle, very dilute. No one'd notice, they'd get just as steamy regardless, and people were probably peeing through their towels anyway. About time he left some residue of his own around.

Hadn't quite become jaded enough to do it, though. Daniel was a pretty gentle soul with a vigorous work ethic. He came from strong Irish stock, constantly a little blotchy in the face, with thick curly brown hair. He had an impressive musculature that made most people assume he was a manual laborer, probably a farmer, maybe a mover. He usually just said he worked nights. And had been for too many years now, his best years. He was coming on 27 in July, and almost positive he'd never book anything as an actor again. He'd been in a few paper towel commercials the past year, which ended up feeling like business as usual. One director had yelled at him to scrub harder.
Daniel knew he was gormless sidekick material at best, not fated to be a leading man. It didn't matter, though, as long as he got to pretend for a while to be something else. He was great at immersion, a true method actor, could barely remember his real name after a night onstage.

Occasionally he'd bring this energy to the bathhouse, put on a grimace and a limp or something, assuming the role of an old dude with a chip on his shoulder and a crippling mortgage payment. He'd mutter angrily about the failure of social security and the laziness of America's youth. Once he snapped out of the bit, he usually felt a little better about his own lot in life. Debt free, still pretty young, not limping. Other times he felt weighed down for hours afterward, like he'd taken a stomach-full of someone else's lunch.

The last room Dan cleaned was always the Red Room. It was the hottest sauna, reaching up to 200 degrees Fahrenheit. When Dan was first hired, he didn't know to save the hottest for last, and went into the Red Room right away. After two minutes of wiping benches, he started to feel light-headed, saw black pinpricks. He got out of there fast and chugged a liter of cold water. These days he knew to open the door right away, let it just sit and cool down for a half hour minimum. Even then he dreaded going in. It just smelled hot, like every breath he took was making his insides sweat.

Dan leaned on his mop, looking at the Red Room, then down at his watch. He'd been cleaning for almost two hours, and his forearms were aching.

"One more, just one more," he muttered, drinking deeply out of his bottle of Gatorade. Blue flavor. It was all they had in the bathhouse vending machines. Just blue Gatorade and diet Pepsi. He didn't know if this was a restocking issue or if the owner thought these two beverages would more than satisfy any reasonable consumer. Whatever. He finished the drink and started in on the Red Room.