In my long and crazy life I’ve had some adventures. Nothing at the Tucker Max level mind you, but things happen. I’ve had a lot more misadventures though. It all has to do with being a Born Troublemaker. Many of these misadventures occur in bathrooms, or what passes for bathrooms, all over the world. Allow me, if you will, to relate one story that is both funny and horribly disgusting at the same time. It isn’t pretty, but it is true.
A few years ago my college friends and I decided to road trip from our college in Springfield, OH, to Atlantic City. We started from Springfield because one of my friends was a bartender/bouncer at one of the more popular college bars. Luckily it was the summer, so all the college douche bags weren’t there to get in my way, talk about how great the Dave Matthews Band is and kick me with their Birkenstocks.
The bar was called (and probably still is) Station 1 because it used to be a fire station. Then they built a more modern one across the street and decided that a bar two blocks from a campus full of underage drinkers was the best way to go with the first building.
So we’re hanging out at this bar one night, enjoying all types of cheap libations, when it hits. There’s a rumbly in my tumbly and a bubbling in my guts. My early warning deuce-dropping alert has been activated and if I don’t find a bathroom in the next ten minutes I’ll become a very fragrant and lonely guy.
Using the bar bathroom wasn’t even an option. It was about two feet wide and filled with pointless graffiti from top to bottom, (you know, stuff like If you like getting your balls sucked, call Tracy Ma at 555-SLUT). Decades of drunken college use had left a four-inch layer of puke and shit all over every surface. Just walking into the bathroom was like dealing with a HAZMAT environment. You have to hold your breath starting from ten feet away from the bathroom. If you have ever seen Trainspotting, then you know exactly what kind of bathroom I’m talking about.
After assessing the situation I decide to see if I can take my chance across the street. After all, they’re firemen, they gotta let people use their bathroom when asked, it’s the nice and decent thing to do, right?
I run across the street and start banging on the door. Precious minutes later a fireman walks up, but he’s wary and refuses to actually open the door. What kind of a world do we live in where a fireman won’t even open the door for wide-eyed, drunk, incoherent black men at midnight? It’s a shame. I told him that the bar across the street was out of toilet paper and I asked if I could use his bathroom. He shook his head no. To this day I wonder what kind of terrorist plot he thought was going to be carried out by a guy trying to take a dump in a fire station. I guess I’ll never know.
He wouldn’t open the door, but he did agree to give me a roll of toilet paper. Wasn’t that nice of him? I figured that tp was better than nothing, so I thanked him and wandered back across the street in that odd shuffle people use to keep their butt cheeks closed and aren’t afraid to be obvious about it.
I was getting desperate. I decided to call upon the dump-taking skills I acquired in Iraq, (which is another Tale of Bathroom Horror in itself) and just go outside. It would be nice to feel the cool, summer night breeze waft across my buttocks. But as I looked around, trying to recon the best place to do the doo (as it were) I found nothing. There was either a very obvious and out in the open parking lot, or there was an ivy (potentially poisonous) covered hill that looked way too slippery. Doing my business out-of-doors looked to be a no go.
I ran down my list of options and dismissed them all. Go back to the house I’m staying at? It’s a mile away, I’d never make it. Knock on the door of somebody nearby? And what, ask if I could blow their bathroom up? I don’t think so, besides the only houses that are close are frat houses and they’re empty in the summer.
One by one options were eliminated, until there was only one left. And I was desperate and crazy enough to do it: Use the bar bathroom.
I went inside and informed my friend who worked there as to my plan. He looked at me with shock and terror. To the best of his knowledge, nobody had ever tried to sit on that toilet. There had to be ten forms of herpes alone on that seat. Even David Blane wouldn’t be crazy enough to do what I was going to do. Oh, and there’s something I forgot to mention: the bathroom door didn’t lock. That meant that I needed an accomplice to use it, or else everybody and their mother could just walk in and catch me with my neck veins popping out and my face grimacing as I attempt to strain out a deuce. Unsavory.
I won’t go into the horror of trying to use the bathroom. The roll of tp I used up just trying to get the toilet semi clean. The balancing act of trying to not let my pants touch the floor or any other vertical surface. The stench, (and not from me either thank you very much!) Oh the humanity! The horror!
Of course, people were curious as to why there was a big-ass black guy standing outside the bathroom with his arms crossed. And, as it is with WPs, when they get curious, they decide to investigate. Once people heard that there was a guy stupid enough to use the Station bathroom, word spread quickly. People purposely came up to catch a glimpse of my foolish ass. Ha, those merry pranksters! They got the door open a few times, despite my boy’s presence as a bouncer. Which meant that I had to divide my time between forcing “it” out and using both hands to pull the door closed. I yelled at people to stop, I was vulnerable, caught in the middle of doing (while completely natural) a personal act in a very disgusting place and them trying to watch me wasn’t aiding the situation. I pleaded, I begged, for my privacy and my dignity. Of course that helped not a smidgen.
Fifteen minutes later I was finished, (it’s not that it took me 15 minutes, it’s just that I had a little stage-fright.) and walked out.
To great applause.
I then went home and used a straight razor to slice off the top four layers of skin from my ass and thighs. I couldn’t take any chances!
Stay turned for another Tale of Bathroom Horror, involving a stalker and an ill-timed encounter in the men’s room of my high school.