The road to Logan can be fraught with danger and excitement.
A few years ago, I was returning home to Logan from the Salt lake Men’s Choir concert. It was nearing midnight. I was tired, and I stopped at the Brigham City rest area.
Now, before your filthy minds dream up all sorts of images of lurid rest-stop shenanigans, let me assure you that I really did have to pee.
Now, I’ve always been entertained, and I might add a little bit titillated, by the grafilthy that some adventurous “authors” compose on bathroom stall walls. In fact, I hold in special regard, those essays which were able to rhyme. So given the choice, I usually elect to use a stall rather than a urinal, if only for the expansive literary opportunities.
On this particular occasion, the writers had been very prolific. Thus, after my own personal bodily function was finished, I dare say that I tarried longer than the requisite three-shakes-and-a-zip, in order that I might be able to read the “advertisements.”
Long story short — while fishing for the toilet paper (that’s my story and I’m sticking to it) I lost hold of my car keys and, to my horror, they went plop straight into the toilet.
I panicked. This was very serious as that is the one and only ignition key that existed for Queertanic, (my powder blue, 1975 Buick Electra land yacht). Dumbfounded, I just stared down into the filthy, disgusting and unflushed toilet for at least two minutes.
Finally, in frenzied desperation, with no other option in sight, I wrinkled up my nose and stuck my hand into the surprisingly icy cold, fetid, stinking water.
Let me make an obvious statement: Rest-area thrones are not designed for a queen. I guess I should not be surprised, as the privacy divides are never large enough to facilitate the rapturous grandeur of a voluminous hoop skirt in full frill mode. Nonetheless, whoever designed them made the drain pipe too small to accommodate an adult male hand, even one not wearing Lee Press-On Nails. In hindsight, I have come to believe that this fact may help explain why public restrooms are so often wretchedly clogged. God forbid some poor sucker produces a really large turd. It can result in a stoppage that would resemble the 1982 landslide which dammed the Spanish Fork river, thereby drowning the town of Thistle, Utah.
This occasion really could have been a “LITERAL OH SHIT MOMENT” but luckily I had ceased performing bodily functions at number one, without proceeding on to number two.
I exited the stall and looked for something to reach down into the toilet with to fish the keys out. Damn it, nothing usable in sight. With anxiety quickly rising, I went outside to find something useful. I saw some bushes behind the building. Excitedly, I remembered from my Boy Scout days, I could fashion a Dutch Oven moving pot grabber and a weenie roasting stick out of such branches.
Just then, a drop-dead gorgeous 20-something guy with bulging muscles in all the right places started walking toward the restroom. Under normal circumstances, my instinct would be to reverse my course and follow him into the restroom, hoping to catch his eye. Then with any luck, upon exiting the throne room, perhaps I could strike up some flirtatious banter with the Adonis, thereby getting his number; or better yet, arranging a discreet, yet torrid assignation. However, of all nights, in full panic mode, I overrode baser instincts and let caution be my guide.
I feared he might flush the throne containing my keys, so I abandoned the twig idea and performed the stereotypical cruising move of circling back, and returning to the restroom following him in (just like any self respecting rest area cruising troll would). Indeed, as my darkest fears began to come to fruition, he started to enter the “STALL OF GREAT PERIL.” Now remember, it was midnight at a rest area and in the 1980s when rest areas were known to host excessive amounts of cruising.
I think I scared the shit out of the stud when I rushed in behind him, touched him on the shoulder and pleaded, “Please don’t use this stall. Use the other one, because I’ve dropped my keys in this one.” His expression was a combination of disbelief and disgust.
I retreated back outside and finally found a suitable twig. I passed Mister Cutie exiting the facility while on my way back in. His facial expression had progressed to terror. Trying to prove that I was legitimate, I showed him my stick. He broke into a run, leaving me alone at the entrance. As I re-entered the restroom, I heard his car tires actually squeal as he sped out of the parking lot.
It took five frustrating minutes of trial and error, and much muttering of swear words, before I was able to fish the keys out.
This experience leaves us with several important questions:
- How do you sanitize keys?
- What kind of story is Mister Cutie going to be telling his friends?
- I washed my hands until they were raw, do you think that is enough?
- Should I offer to lead a Boy Scout troop of up-and-coming princesses?
- Should I develop and market a nail file fit for whittling branches?
- Was it the carpel tunnel that caused me to drop the keys or a subconscious need for adventure?
These and other eternal questions shall be answered in future chapters of The Perils Of Petunia Pap Smear.