The smell is too much. Shit. Pure shit and ass and b/o. I stick my head out the door, coughing and spluttering. My GOD. But I grit my teeth: I have a mission. The pressure in my bladder is too much. I really don't want to, yet I really have to. I compose myself and take a few deep, cleansing breaths before holding my nose and plunging back into the bathroom. It is not surrender- it's game time.
Focus. I say to myself. I ignore the polite, rusting sign above the toilet that reads PLEASE LIFT LID BEFORE PEEING. Yeah, like I'm gonna touch that thing. I see that many others have made the same decision.
I quickly unzip my pants and do my business, knowing I would soon run out of breath. It was just my luck that this was the only bathroom within 50 miles. I knew the last pit stop had decent restrooms, but, no, I thought, I could hold it... I curse myself for my egotistical attitude toward my alleged bladder of steel.
After a while, I shake the rest of it out and zip up. I whip around toward the sink, panicking when I see the mold-covered manual faucet instead of the no-touch automatic kind. This is worse than I'd thought it would be. I have a feeling I will have to write "agoraphobia" on the forms at the doctor's office soon enough. I reluctantly turn on the water, keeping in mind that it was in order to wash my hands. I unroll the paper towels and use them as a barrier as I turn off the sink and flush the toilet. It makes a stomach-lurching belching sound. Well, on second thought, who wouldn't be disgusted by this?
My lungs are about ready to burst, the smell starting to seep through. I turn to the door: how did this work again? My damp towel fumbles with the lock. I hear a click and yank the door as hard as I can. No dice. I turn the bolt the opposite way and try again. Nada.
It's been too long. The stale air in my chest throws itself up through my throat and through my lips. I take a ragged inhale. Oh, God, the smell! I turn to the toilet and heave. Chunks of GoFast bars and diet Coke come spewing from my mouth and plop in the water. The rank half-digested junk food aroma mixes with the odor of shit. It triggers my gag reflex even more and I retch once again until my stomach is clear.
I lean on my haunches and take a deep breath: in through the nose, out through the mouth. I throw my back against the door and slide to the ground. My heart thumps uncomfortably and off beat- vomiting took a lot out of me. Not wanting to have to stand up and look at the sick, I lift the limp paper towel and pull the toilet handle, wrinkling my nose at the guttural sound that follows. The smell is finally starting to neutralize and become bearable. I sigh. Maybe if I had sucked it up earlier and actually breathed, I wouldn't be on the floor of a gas station bathroom in the middle of nowhere. Screw it, I think. Don't be a wuss.
Suddenly, the surface behind me sweeps away. I land flat on my back, staring up at some hefty-looking trucker. A mass of facial hair covers half of his face.
"Whoa, kid. You okay?" his beard asks. The sudden whoosh of fresh air surprises me.
"Yeah..." I mumble. "I, uh, couldn't get out. It would have been helpful to know that, you know, the door swung out. Not in."
The trucker scoffs and steps around me. "Ugh! It smells like someone just blew chunks in here..."
I sit up on my elbows, my face turning red. "Yeah. Sorry about that."
He shakes his head and shuts the door of the gas station bathroom, leaving me outside breathing in sweet, clean air. At last.
