The road to Logan is fraught with danger and excitement.
A few years ago I was returning to Logan from the Salt lake Men’s Choir concert. It was nearing midnight. I was tired and 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 had 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. So given the choice, I usually elect to use a stall rather than a urinal, if only for the expanded literary opportunities.
On this particular occasion, the writers had been very prolific. Thus, I dare say that I tarried longer than the requisite three shakes and a zip, in order to read the “advertisements.”
Long story short: While fishing for toilet paper (that’s my story and I’m sticking to it) I lost hold of my car keys and, to my horror, they plopped straight into the toilet bowl.
I panicked. Dumbfounded, I stared into the filthy, disgusting toilet water for at least two minutes.
Finally, in frenzied desperation, with no other option in sight, I removed my opera length driving gloves, wrinkled up my nose and stuck my hand down in 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 that I should not be surprised, as the privacy divides are never large enough to be able 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.
This occasion really could have been a literal “Oh, Shit!” moment; luckily I had ceased performing bodily functions at “number one,” without proceeding on to “number two.” Sorry, those of you with a scat fetish will just have to be disappointed, however if you’re into water sports let the yellow bandanna proudly fly!
I exited the stall and searched for something to reach down into the toilet with and fish out the keys. Damn it, nothing usable was in sight. With my anxiety quickly rising, I went outside the building to try and find something useful. I saw some bushes behind the building. Excitedly, I remembered that in my Boy Scout days I learned to fashion a Dutch Oven pot grabber and a weenie roasting stick out of such bush branches. I started toward the bushes.
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 natural 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, that night of all nights, in full panic mode, I was overrode my baser instincts and let caution be my guide.
I feared that he might flush the throne containing my keys so I abandoned the twig idea and performed the stereotypical cruising move of circling back to the restroom, following him in. (Just like any self-respecting rest area cruising troll would.) Indeed, my darkest fear came to fruition as he entered the “Stall of Great Power.” Now remember, it’s midnight at a rest area and this was in the 1980s when rest areas were known to host an excessive amount 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 because I’ve dropped my keys in this one.” His facial expression was a combination of disbelief and fright. After I directed him into the next stall, I remained there “casually” standing guard. I grew aware as I was waiting in the totally silent room that Mr. Stud was not making any sound at all. If he was being bathroom shy we could nave been there all night. I remembered suddenly a chapter from “Miss Manners” stating that people like to poo in private.
I retreated outside and finally found a suitable twig. On the way back in, I passed mister cutie exiting the facility. His facial expression had progressed to terror. Trying to prove I was legit, I showed him my stick. He broke into a run, leaving me alone with my stick. As I reentered the restroom, I heard his car tires 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 fished the keys out.
This experience leaves us with several important questions:
1. How do you sanitize keys?
2. What kind of story is Mr. Stud going to be telling his friends?
3. I washed my hands until they were raw; do you think that is enough?
5. Should I develop and market a nail file fit for whittling branches?
6. Was it the carpel tunnel that caused me to drop the keys or a subconscious need for adventure?
7. Should Mattel develop a “Stud in the Stall” doll to play with Ken?
These and other eternal questions shall be answered in future chapters of the Perils Of Petunia Pap Smear.