We were sitting at a Subway just off the Athens, Tennessee exit on I-75 North.
I was enjoying a $5 Footlong, buffalo chicken this time, rather than the usual Spicy Italian. Travis was having the same, and Joe was eating the Spicy Italian.
We were just three travelers on our way home from the Atlanta airport. This was the final “automobiles” phase in our “planes, trains, and automobiles—and buses” tour of the East Coast, from New York to Knoxville in a day.
I look out the window and see a young Caucasian male bent forward at the waist, running awkwardly back to the Pontiac sedan still idling.
The car tears out of the parking lot.
I take another bite.
Travis is talking to the middle-aged woman at the next table. Listening to their conversation, I realize that I’ve missed something.
“What happened?” I asked.
Travis and the woman take turns telling the story.
The guy I saw scuttling back to the car had run up to the window, pulled down his pants and underwear, and pressed his genitals against the glass. The problem was that he came in too fast on his approach and smashed his testicles. In effect, he junk-punched himself with a plate glass window.
What I had seen was a man who had just set on fire one of the major nerve centers in his body because he wanted to play exhibitionist on a Monday night doubled over in pain as he returned to his getaway car.
A total of five customers and two employees were present in the restaurant. Only two of them saw what happened, and only one of those, Travis, saw the teenager’s mistake.
The woman at the next table said, “You know what we call that? A pervert.”
The only evidence was a foggy smudge on the window.
Joke’s on you, Mister Backfiring-Public-Exposure-Aching-Groin-Idiot.