Public toilets have it in for me. They discovered me at age 4 during a trip to drop my siblings off at church camp and have not left me alone since. I could write a horror movie. Jason, Freddy and a great white shark ain't got nothing on that graffiti strewn stall with the silver handled, white porcelain devil that we so trustingly give our bare backsides to. You see it as something soothing, an oasis during a long car ride but, trust me. Behind that innocent looking seat, that beckoning pool of water lays an evil menace.
As I mentioned, during my 4th year of existence on this planet, my parents, siblings and I made the yearly pilgrimage to Camp Wakonda, our church camp. I was too young to attend but, I was excited at the 'picnic' mom had planned for us on our way there. You see, this was back before the days of the Golden Arches, drive thru's and cholesterol. Back then it was homemade sandwiches, potato salad and grape soda at a rest stop. We loaded up the car and made our journey, stopping for our fabulous picnic, and then continued up the road. At a stop for gas, my 4 year old bladder decided that the grape soda consumed earlier needed an outlet. This was my first venture into the land of the public restroom stall and I wanted to be a big girl. Mom walked me into the restroom, waited while I found an empty stall, made sure I had managed to make it up on the toilet without a stepstool and with my urging that I was old enough to do my business alone, left. The door to the outside had no more than closed and I was finished. Hey, four year olds have rather small bladders. I reached for the TP and just as my hand touched it, I felt my ass shift then slip. Suddenly that paper was much further from my reach. I tried to move but, the more I wiggled the further the paper moved from my grasp. No worries, I thought. I will just jump down, grab the paper and wipe standing up. I turned my attention to getting off this great, white, hope only to feel the dampness of the toilet bowl water touching my butt. Ok, let's try again. As my legs came closer to my head and I started to resemble the letter "V" I began to realize that my 4 year old, skinny ass was not made to fit over a public toilet. My ass was sinking and there was no getting out. So with the words of "I'm a big girl and I can do this myself" running through my brain, I swallowed pride and begin to loudly say " Mama!" Nothing. Louder. "MAMA!" Nothing. My whole 4 years of life flashed before my eyes and within that 2 minute time frame, I hear a familiar voice. It is my 10 year old sister. "Do you want me to get mom?" I was torn between being a big girl and forever turning into a letter of the alphabet or admitting that I was not quite ready to take on a public potty room. As I was pondering life, pee and the pursuit of making a tinkle on your own, I hear mom's voice.
"Are you ok?"
"I can't get off the toilet". I answered.
"Can you unlock the door?"
Ok, what part of I can't get off the toilet are you not getting.
"No, I can't get to the door."
"Ok, I am going to try to get under the door to you."
Oh lord. All I can thank you for is the fact that mom is not carrying the camera with her and I will never have to suffer the humiliation of a future Prom date being entertained with these images. I see mom's head pop under the door. Then I see her arm. Then I hear, "I can't get to you. I need someone smaller." Enter my older sister. Amidst the fear that I will be sucked forever into the sewey hole, I let her pick me up off the toilet from hell, open the stall door and carry me out.
Fast forward seven years.
Dad accepted a job in a new town which meant we had to find a new home. One weekend found dad, mom and me making the journey to our soon to be new city to meet up with a Realtor. His office was in an older building and kind of hodge podge put together. After what seemed hours of pouring over pages and pages of listings (where was the internet when we needed it?) I felt nature call. I asked where the restroom was and was directed all the way to the back of this building in a section that looked like it was once a porch and had been enclosed. I walked into the restroom, shut the squeaky door, locked it and did my business. When finished I washed my hands, unlocked the door and turned the handle. The handle however, refused to turn. Ok, no biggie, let's try it again. Nope. So here I went for the next 15 minutes. Turn the handle left. Nothing. Turn the handle right. Nothing. I eventually gave up and thought ok, someone will come looking for me. 20 minutes in a bathroom is a bit much even for a pre-teen that loves mirrors. 25 minutes pass. Nothing. So, I decide this calls for a little noise. I start banging on the door. Not working. Then I add a little shouting. Still nothing. I start wondering if they completely forgot they had a daughter or if this was their evil plan all along. "Let's take her to a new city, find a place with a faulty bathroom door, wait until she has to make tinkle then leave her. Bwa ha ha ha". I was resigned to the fact that I would most likely be found by some homeless person as I was stuck trying to squeeze through the 1 foot by 2 foot only window in the bathroom when I hear moms voice.
“Sweety is everything alright?”
“I can’t get out of here!”
“Is the door stuck?”
“No, I just really like this bathroom and I can’t pull myself away from it. Can we just move the rest of the family here as well?”
“Are you being serious?”
“NO! The handle won’t turn!”
“Let me get your dad.”
Minutes later I hear two male voices on the other side of the door followed by jiggling of the door handle. The door still won’t open and I am thinking that my earlier sarcasm may actually come true and the entire family will be moving into the realtor’s office. I can see it now. We will be the family in town with the dirty little secret.
“Have you met the new family that just moved into the old realtor’s office?”
“Yeah, I hear they keep their youngest daughter locked in a bathroom”.
About that time the doorknob falls on the floor in front of me and the door swings open. I was free. That was the last time I ever remember having a bodily function while house hunting.
Moving ahead a number of years *cough* 30 *cough*.
I had been back home to Springfield, MO to see my family. Mom and dad took me to the airport to catch my flight back to Phoenix. We got there early so we found a spot in the restaurant and had breakfast which included several cups of coffee and a few glasses of water. After saying our “see ya laters” I boarded my flight, found my seat, buckled up and realized all that coffee and water probably wasn’t such a good idea. Thank goodness I was seated fairly close to the toilet in an aisle seat and had a good chance of beating everyone else to be first to break the seal. After what seemed an eternity, the Fasten Seatbelt light finally went off and I made a mad dash for the toilet cutting off a few slower people in the process. I indeed got in ahead of everyone else and trying to be considerate, I made it a quick stop. All done. Flush the toilet. Jump at the noise it makes because I always fear getting a body part sucked in and spit out to fly amongst the clouds. Wash hands. Look for paper towels. Accidently grab Kleenex. Wash hands again to remove tissue paper. Find paper towels. Grab latch to unlock door. Latch doesn’t move. Pull latch harder. Latch doesn’t budge. Hit latch with fist. Latch appears to flip me off. Stare at latch and mutter “Dear Lord. Not again”. So the game begins. Pull latch. Nothing. Pull latch. Nothing. Finally I bang on the door hoping that someone is not obeying the flight attendant and is standing in the aisle waiting with baited breath and full bladder for me to emerge from the can. No luck. Ok, so how bad can it be to spend an entire flight in a toilet? I have water, a place to sit and I am more than set if I hear nature call. I was about to just settle in on the commode (being careful not to accidentally hit the lever and flush my ass into outer space) when I hear pounding on the door.
“Hey! I am locked in here. Can you get me some help?”
No reply.
Silence.
Back to my “seat” I go and again, more pounding on the door.
“HELLO! I AM LOCKED IN HERE. THE LATCH WON’T MOVE. PLEASE GET HELP”
Again, silence.
I am about to start thinking that maybe I am hallucinating when again, bam, bam, bam on the door.
“Are you freakin’ DEAF? I AM LOCKED IN HERE!! GET HELP YOU MORON!” I screamed as I beat on the latch.
“Ma’am. Please let go of the latch”
It was my handsome Jamaican flight attendant.
I let go of the latch and I could hear some kind of thumping and banging going on outside. The latch wiggled a bit, then wiggled some more and walla, it budged and the door swung open. Standing in front of me was the flight attendant, a non-English speaking family and about 20 people with looks on their faces ranging from anger, to pain to ‘I wonder if the windows in these things open and if anyone would notice me taking a leak out of one of them’.
I thanked the flight attendant and apologized for calling him a moron, quickly found my seat, put my seatbelt back on, hid my face in a magazine and vowed no more coffee before a flight. In fact, public restrooms in general are not a good idea. Ever.
I wonder if they make travel catheters.
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