The third stall is the only one with a working lock. It has unfortunately not got a toilet - it has been removed, and the floor is covered in glistening yellow-orange candles, little scraps of wrapper, little figurines carved from crushed bread and ancient, verdigris-coloured ham. Here, the little idol to Doug, Patron Saint of Assistant Managers at Yumbo King. Here, a smaller, but still terrible imitation of the hulking monster you saw on the roof, his grown picked out in gilded sesame seeds.
Where the toilet presumably used to sit, there is a ragged hole in the floor, rough-hewn cement giving way to cold earth - you can look down, into the cavern below, and see the light cut golden and pink through stained glass, hear the faint and solemn chanting, the song you already know... see movement.
A priest, draped in robes of ham with a bun hat and a bowl of melted cheese set before him, the congregants lining up for their yellow baptism...
That sulfuric chapel under the parking lot, gleaming in its antiseptic tile surfaces, carefully inlaid stainless-and-tile mosaic work with the stations of the yumbo...
The seats drop like the amphitheaters of old to focus the expectant attention on the altar, the font of melted cheese swirling with the memory of convection, the oversized aspergillum bobbing against the sides...
See the eight foot paintings of the saint, depicted cutting his flayed skin into five equal slices...
The vergers pace the aisles, trying to meet the eyes of worshippers who must ask themselves: am I worthy for the communion of the yumbo
am I worthy to dedicate my offspring to the yumbo
am I worthy, and do I dare, for fear of being found wanting...
Are you worthy, beloved, for prices and participation do vary...
The priest looks up. His eyes weep cheese. he sees you, and he weeps to see you, and you see him, and he weeps to be seen...