Sitka or Bust: Commute The World

I’ve always been a fan of bathroom humor. Even so, I can’t for the life of me get over the awkwardness of public bathrooms. I found this in a bit of my old writing from college and figured it went well with my theme lately.

This is my story.

It just so happens that I had eaten an odd, yet delicious meal that didn’t seem to agree with me past entering my mouth. Anyways, its finals week at my university and I scuttle out of my computer lab to the nearest restroom, hoping not to encounter anyone I know on the way. I can feel the breakfast coming alive in my stomach as I power walk. Not the best feeling let me tell you.

Of course, I push open the door and see someone I know at the sink washing her hands. Shit. How bad is my luck. She’s a talker.

We strike up a short-lived conversation as I slowly inch myself far enough in a stall to make it obvious I am not too caught up in the conversation, that I have some business to be attended.

I have already unbuttoned my jeans at this point, but she’s still talking. Of course, I did it sneakily, with my hands buried inside the pouch of my sweatshirt, so she probably wasn’t aware. My answers have turned to short grunts. I’ve regressed into some sort of cave-dwelling, dinosaur hunting ancestor of mine.

I grip the metal door of my stall with tense fingers, impatiently thumping a thumb on the jamb as I realize she’s finished drying her hands. God. No one is that thorough in washing their hands. I’m breaking out into a cold sweat and my free hand is shaking inside my pocket. Somehow, I’m still participating in the conversation enough for her to stay. How is that possible? I’m not even speaking anymore. Its like I’m playing charades and she’s the world’s shittiest guesser.

Someone else walks in and passes between us, momentarily breaking our eye contact. That did the trick, finally she says goodbye. At that moment I would have frenched the pope had he been in the stall with me. But damn it, whoever had walked in had seen my face.

Bathroom etiquette, in my case,  means you do not do anything if someone in the bathroom knows who you are. I don’t care if she has no idea what my name is, but that woman knows what I look like. I’m fucked.

I make a big deal jingling my belt around, hoping that even that slight of a sound would help the bathroom goer beside me get down to business. Nothing. I rattle the toilet paper roll and pull off a strip. I clear my throat. Still nothing. What are the odds that I get stuck with another shy bathroom goer? She’s not even gonna pee until I get down to business.

By now there’s been too much silence. We both know the other one is gonna decimate the toilet, but neither one of us wants to be the one to break the silence. I look up at the ceiling. Why do you do shit like this to me? My stomach gurgles a warning.

I haven’t so much as heard a drop come from my neighbor. My brain goes silent, even my deepest thoughts are panicked at how to handle the situation. Suddenly, one word pops into my head as if spoken by an ironic and schizophrenic part of myself.

Stalemate.

I laugh silently at the thought of how long both of us will sit and wait for the other. I actually thought, well I don’t have a final until 3. That gives me about, oh, pretty close to 4 hours. I seriously considered it. Then I realized how much Googling or internet Sudoku playing I could do. Fuck that.

I get down to business, hoping I could somehow will it into being extremely quiet. My ass has been clenched so tight at this point that I think it couldn’t help but let out a sigh of relief when I relaxed a fraction. A tiny little fart bubbled out of my ass like the sneeze of a mouse. I sat bolt upright and clenched my cheeks, knowing she’d heard it. I blew my nose nonchalantly, flushed the toilet, and hurried out.

I then ran up a flight of stairs to the faculty bathroom that no one ever uses. How much I love the peace and quiet that it afforded me you’ll never be able to understand.

I warn you now, if you’re squeamish this isn’t an article to read. Though if you aren’t you might get a good laugh and maybe even find something in common with me.

I’ve got a somewhat sensitive digestive system, though I can proudly say I’ve only killed one plumbing system so far. Generally speaking, stress does the trick, or eating something I haven’t cooked myself, sometimes I swear it happens if I was just looking forward too much to the food. Anyways, it tends to pop up at very inopportune moments and I figured why not own my embarrassments and share them with the world.

Well, I’ve been going to get massages, if you recall. I was feeling pretty gross, but the feeling ebbed all day, every time making me think it had passed for good. I was feeling some gurgles right before I had my appointment but it was too late to cancel so I figured I’d have to suck it up and go anyways. Luckily the moment I pulled into the drive, I felt nearly over it. I went to my chiropractor and he snapped my neck quickly before sending me on my way to the masseuse.

The appointment started out relatively smoothly with my shoulder and neck work, but just as she started to descend I could feel some very strong gurgles taking up residence in my stomach. They were killers and I knew it. She’s massaging my ass cheek and I’m holding my breath, paranoid that I’m going to not only shit myself, but have it happen while this lady is so nicely touching my ass.

A smarter woman probably would’ve bowed out then and there. I mean half a massage is better than a lifetime of nightmares of shitting on someone. Instead I spent what felt like an eternity clenching my cheeks in such a way that the lady touching my ass would not also feel my muscles tensing. I’m sure she felt it, but was kind enough not to let on. I mean c’mon, if you spend enough time touching butts, someone must’ve farted on her before, but I also hoped that I wouldn’t be that someone.

She moved on to my legs and I felt that cold breeze sweep over me. I held it together, though. I finished the massage successfully. Then I inexplicably went to Walmart to pick up one item. It was supposed to be quick. In and out. I shit myself the moment I walked in past the greeter. But alas, I was on a mission and I still finished my shopping like a champ.

Not even a week later I had to make an unexpected trip out of town. Maybe it was the stress of it or maybe it was because I tried to eat everything in my fridge that could potentially spoil. All in a few hours time. But, I got on the road around midnight and by 3am I was feeling the distinctive jitters that accompany a digestive blitzkrieg. I missed my first exit in a futile attempt to find an open bathroom. I ended up on the next exit following signs to a gas station, but once I got close enough I felt that there was something not quite right about the station’s dim glow in the night. It should’ve been a beacon, but instead the pumps were dark and only the convenience store portion looked open. I was also the only car there.

My warning sign for self-preservation was overruled by the desire to not shit in my own car. I got out and walked to the store, trying each door I found, but they were all locked. I also saw no cashier. In that moment, I became savage with anger. My mind flashed obscenities at the gas station and the cashier, and even my damn GPS. I returned to my car with passionate rage added to the fire in my bowels, opened my glove box for a stash of napkins and trotted over behind the dumpster.

I ripped down my jeans, crouched behind a guard rail and quickly laid waste to the night.  It was the most satisfying thing I’ve ever done. I thought of whoever empties the dumpster finding evidence I’d been there and I mentally shook my fist at him. I proudly stared into the security camera as I returned to my car, turned the engine over and drove away without a second thought.