I was minding the bookstore today. A homeless man came in. He frequents the store, likes the 25-cent books on the sale rack and always has lots to say about the authors he likes. Today he was particularly focused on true crime books. I listened attentively, helping customers and processing books as he told stories.

Soon all the other customers were gone and it was just him and me. He kept talking. It was getting near closing. Something made me look down. There was a puddle under his chair. His pants were soaked. I froze for a minute.

As pleasantly as I could I told him it was time for me to close the store and that he needed to leave. I could now smell the urine. I tried not to breathe. (As my brother is reading this post he’s wondering how his queasy, wimpy sister could possibly handle this.) After much prodding from me, he finally left, putting a quarter on the counter for the book he’d found.

I cleaned up, sprayed some air freshener and hoped I didn’t hurt his feelings.