My brain began a series of simultaneous calculations. The car is six blocks away. The public restroom two blocks beyond that. The public restroom I am thinking of is a drug store. Do they even have public restrooms? Is it time to run? Will running make the situation worse?
As I have mentioned before, I believe public bathrooms should be visited less often than the moon. They are vile, evil places to be used only in emergencies. When I have the opportunity to avoid a public restroom I take it. So when the initial bubble passed, my mind turned off the submarine dive horn blaring in my head. That was my first mistake. I broke the cardinal rule of gastrointestinal distress: ALWAYS TRUST THE BUBBLE.
Man, was that dumb. Lulled into a false sense of security, I got cocky, even dreaming of making it home to my own bathroom thirty miles away. We hopped into the car heading for West Ocean City to find The Girl some dessert. When the pain returned we were in bumper to bumper Saturday night beach traffic with about eight blocks and drawbridge between me and an easily accessible public toilet. What have I done? If the drawbridge goes up it is game over. Sweating despite the AC, I turned up the radio to drown out the abdominal gurgling.
Mercifully, we made it across the bridge and whipped into the Chick-fil-a just on the other side. I rushed through the door trying to disguise the crazed look on my face. Imagine my disappointment when I can barely open the bathroom door because it is so crowded inside. It wasn't so much a restroom as it was a clown car. I had no choice but wedge my way in to assess the situation. Fortunately, most of the crowd was a man herding his boys through some hand washing. Maybe I've caught a break. The single stall is occupied, but the pain has abated for a moment. With a little patience this would soon be okay. Except that a lot of patience was required and that was not okay.
The tiny bathroom contained the stall on one side and the urinal and sink on the opposite wall. I awkwardly hugged a third wall to hopefully signify I am waiting for the stall and the urinal is open. I'm too distracted by the returning Triple P's (Powerful Poop Pains) to even be grossed out that I am leaning against a wall in a public bathroom. This devil's den will be my refuge if this guy will JUST GET OUT OF THE STALL. Minutes began to pass as I did my best to avert my eyes from the steady stream of dudes using the urinal. I've been in this smelly wasteland long enough that I should be offering towels and a mint. Much longer and I'll find out if the perpetually cheery Chick-fil-a employees will still say, "My pleasure" when I tell them there is a clean up on Aisle Six. As time dragged on, I had a choice to make- wait and hope for the best, or ditch and find another bathroom. I always make the wrong call when deciding whether or not to switch grocery lines. The stakes were higher here. I glanced up and realized I can see the stall user's feet in the mirror. I looked for any indication he was wrapping up. Nope. Those Crocs (of course they were Crocs) were planted firm and pointed dead ahead. Then confirmation came that it was time to bolt. Stall Guy started groaning. A deep, guttural, Frankenstein's monster groan. Unnnggghhh. Then another, as if he is trying to push a boulder through his butthole. I grabbed a handful of paper towels (you never know!) and walked to the car. The Wife, incredulous the shituation has still not been resolved, suggested the Chipotle a hundred yards down the road. The Girl, still without dessert, openly wondered if I'm going to make it. She wasn't the only one.
As expected, Chipotle was packed. If things went way south, I'd have quite the audience. If you're unfamiliar, many Chipotles have long, hidden hallways leading to the restroom. Not this one. This one has a short little hall open to the view of many diners. And this short little hall was packed. Two pairs of fathers and sons ahead of me waiting for the SINGLE bathroom. What is with these resort town restaurants, busy as hell for six months a year, only having single restrooms? A tiny part of me wanted to go full internet viral by doing my business right there as a misguided protest against single restrooms. After a couple minutes, Dad Number One tells his kid, "I think somebody is dying in there", and drags his kid out of line. Perfect. Yes, get the hell out of here, I have to go. Finally, some dude emerges and Dad Number Two sends his kid in. Alertly, and I will be forever grateful for this, before going all the way in the kid realizes there is no TP. A couple extra minutes to restock, but that's a good thing. It meant if I got in there I wouldn't have to use my Chick-fil-a paper towels.
The key phrase was "if I got in there" because this kid was in the bathroom for TEN minutes. I didn't know the E. Coli you picked up at Chipotle affected you instantly! Ten minutes? Ten minutes I spent doing my "C'mon Bryan, Don't Crap Your Pants" Dance. Rocking from foot to foot. Deep breaths. Closing my eyes, holding on, hoping each painful bubble was not the one to break the dam. Pacing in a tiny circle. The guy in line behind me probably thought I was a tweaker. No Sir, I'm not a methhead, just a guy considering using the ladies' room or a dark corner of the parking lot to relieve myself. Dad Number Two, which, incidentally, would have been a better nickname for me, finally wandered back over, and probably upon seeing my wide-eyed, Yes-he-is-still-in-there look, rapped on the door imploring his kid to come out. I have never been so relieved to enter a dirty, disgusting public restroom. The nightmare, exacerbated by ignoring the bubble, was over. Order would soon be restored. I have no idea what that boy was doing in there, but I bet he was wearing Crocs.
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