I scurried up to the restroom to wait my turn. I had to go pretty badly, but I think I was keeping my composure: I wasn't squirming around and doubling over or jumping from foot to foot. I wasn't spinning around in circles. And I wasn't declaring to anybody within earshot, "HOLY CHRIST, I GOTTA PISS LIKE YOU WOULDN'T BELIEVE!" Nor was I clutching my crotch, which is always a bad idea because you have to unclinch it order to get your thing out. You're no longer relying on your internal don't-piss-yourself defenses. You've put all your trust in your thumb and forefinger. You've become one-handed. Then, when it comes time to release your grip in order to unzip your pants, you unleash an embarrassing torrent of urine all over your hand, your pants, your shirt, the floor, and any other object that happens to be at ground zero.
Nope. I was being pretty cool for a guy who was about ready to run outside and take a leak on the crowded sidewalk. Still, considering that I was waiting outside a restroom, you wouldn't have to be Sherlock Homes to notice that I probably had to pee pretty bad.
And I had another problem. I was standing behind another guy who was already waiting when I had arrived. He didn't look to be in a big rush, and I considered asking him if I could go ahead of him. I'm pretty quick on the draw. But I figured, how long can he take? I'll just wait. No big deal. Just then, the door opened and a seemingly satisfied customer exited the bathroom. Cool. One down, one to go.
The fat guy in front of me disappeared into the bathroom and shut the door. Sweat was beginning to break out on my forehead. I waited. And I waited. It seemed as if being so incredibly full of urine had heightened my sense of hearing. I could hear the sink running. I heard the humming of a non-tune. I wasn't hearing any toilet-flushing. What the fuck was this dingleberry doin in there?
I did something that I almost never do. I knocked. I hate it when people knock while I'm doing my business. Once is okay, but not when they knock repeatedly. I mean, I'm going as fast as I can. Knocking on the goddam door the whole time I'm in there isn't gonna make me poop any faster. So I don't like to knock if the person who's using the restroom is aware that I'm waiting. But this asshole didn't seem to realize that there was a crisis situation going on out in the hallway, so I figured I'd sound the alarm by tapping gently.
The knock didn't seem to have any effect. More humming. Sink still running. The blowing of a nose. So I gave the door a not-so-gentle kick, hinting that the next time I had to touch that locked door it would be when I was kicking the motherfucker down. About a minute later, the guy finally opened the door and casually walked out, giving me the hairy eyeball as he did. I don't know what kind of glare I gave him. Probably not much of one. I had my eye on the prize. I slammed the door and ran over to the toilet.
The seat was down and there was fresh, dark yellow liquid all over it. No, I didn't taste it or anything, smartass. It just looked fresh, so I assumed it was. I'm not gonna engage in the timeless seat up/seat down debate right now. I've talked too long as it is. But I always put the fuckin seat up. I might not put it back down when I'm done, but at least I'm not gonna piss all over the seat. So I lifted the seat with my foot, though the damage had already been done. Plus, a crowd had gathered outside while I had been waiting, and I wanted the next person to know that I wasn't guilty of toilet seat-befoulment.
To further claim my innocence, once I had done my thing and washed my hands in a timely fashion, I reported to the folks out in the hallway as I walked past them that it had taken that fat guy 10 minutes to piss all over a toilet seat. Most of them looked amused at that, as one will when a the solution to a mystery has been revealed.
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