The Crocodile in Stall Three – May 7th, 2025

📍Location: Behind the gas station off Route 9, next to the haunted Waffle Shack

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Well butter my biscuit and call me a biscuit-butterer—it’s been a day, folks. A real humdinger.

I woke up this morning with a surprisingly fluffy pigeon feather nestled right in the thicket of my beard and the unsettlingly familiar strange taste of danger clinging to the back of my throat. Not your everyday danger, mind you, like dodging those rumbling eighteen-wheelers or cautiously sniffing a can of suspiciously bulging expired sardines. No sir, this was primal. Ancient. The kind of danger that whispers of tooth and claw and things best left undisturbed.

Naturally, I consulted my most trusted advisor, my rusted 1973 Pork & Beans can. This ain’t just any tin, see. This one’s been blessed by three direct lightning strikes (each one a story for another time) and witnessed the miraculous birth of a whole litter of raccoons right beside it. A true oracle, that can. And wouldn’t ya know—it was full of ripples. Not the shimmering surface of water, not the hearty churn of leftover soup. Just… ripples. Static ripples shimmering in the dry bottom. That’s when the hairs on the back of my neck stood up like startled prairie dogs. I knew it then, deep in my gut: something scaly this way comes. Something big. Something… toothy.

With a sigh that could rustle the leaves on a distant oak, I shuffled my way down to the public restroom near the old Highway 6 off-ramp—my usual sanctuary for midday reflection on the mysteries of the universe and, let’s be honest, a reliable emergency rain shelter. But as I pushed open that squeaky metal door, a shiver that had nothing to do with the damp air ran down my spine. I felt it in my bones, that peculiar stillness that descends just before the storm, like the world holding its breath, waiting. And then… came the hiss. Low, guttural, and undeniably reptilian.

Inside stall #3 (the one that’s always suspiciously, unnervingly dry, no matter the weather), lay a live crocodile. Not some little fella you’d find in a fancy pet store. No, this beast was long as a hobo’s yarn after a particularly rambling tale and twice as ornery-looking. Just lounging there on the cracked linoleum like it paid rent and had a key. Its eyes gleamed like polished bottle caps in the dim light, and its breath… well, its breath was like a waft of pure, unadulterated swampy judgment.

My heart did a little jig that felt suspiciously like panic. I backed up slow, real slow, muttering a protective chant taught to me by a wise old dumpster shaman down in Des Moines, a fella who claimed to commune with the spirits of discarded pizza boxes. “Ain’t my time, scaly slime, I walk the rails, not reptile jails.” The croc blinked once, a slow, deliberate movement that somehow felt like an omen accepted. Or maybe just boredom. Hard to tell with reptiles.

Wisdom dictated a strategic retreat. I high-tailed it over to the comforting warmth of the trash fire behind O’Malley’s Liquor Emporium and settled into deep meditation, the flickering flames crackling out truths hidden from normal folk, whispering secrets on the wind. I pondered the cosmic significance of a misplaced reptile, the fragility of public sanitation, and the undeniable strangeness of life on the road.

May your path be clear of unexpected wildlife and your restrooms remain gloriously, blessedly reptile-free,

—Hobo Harry 🐊🔥

P.S. If anyone happens to be missing a rather substantial crocodile with a penchant for dry stalls, I’ve taken the liberty of naming him “Larry.” He seems to have taken a particular interest in guarding the hand dryer now. Approach with caution… and maybe a sturdy stick.