Post No. 5 | COME AND GET ME COPPER
As the press-button bathroom lock supposedly secured the gas station bathroom door, my performance reached its crescendo. I clasp the doorknob and re-check it's lockedness, gripping the mechanism as if it was the congratulating hand of a fellow thespian. I turn and dazzle the balcony/ doorless bathroom stall, with a smile of feigned humility, and grace the stage in front of the sink and soak in the applause. A well-deserved accolade considering the performance I've just given.
The thunderous reaction of the hand dryer initiated by the previous restroom occupant roars. The soft jazz whispering from a single cracked speaker swells like the pit orchestra and I bow and blow a kiss to my biggest fan in the soap scum encrusted mirror. My swan song, comprised of clenched butt cheeks and hitched steps between my automobile and the lavatory, was only witnessed by two individuals but the ethos of the performance has left them enraptured.
I brush aside the thought that the performance I’d just given was only witnessed by two individuals and revel in the moment. The first witness to my performance was none other than my dear brother and accomplice. From his perspective, the performance was a masterfully executed comedy. The second member of my viewership was none other than a highly attentive Kansas highway patrolman. His interpretation of the scene was to be determined, but it would more than likely be deemed a tragedy. The fact that I had evaded the officer thus far showed that I had at least piqued his interest. And it is that interest alone that I believe has kept him from bursting into the john and awarding me a set of glittering conjoined bracelets.
At the rise of the curtain, the patrolman, we’ll call him Sergeant James Lypton, had undoubtedly been lost in a daydream while watching the rolling amber waves of grain when My automobile breezed by at a cool ninety miles per hour. As I was traveling twenty miles per hour over the posted speed limit, his well-trained radar gun catapulted his cruiser in my pursuit.
Now, if this was a play with one-dimensional characters, Sgt. Lypton would have flipped on his lights, pulled me over, and dealt me a citation for my infraction but this is not a play for simpletons. As soon as I witnessed the patrol car leave its post the language in our automobile turned as colorful as the sunset on the western horizon. I had a decision to make. Option #1 was to slow to the requisite pace and proceed with my muffler tucked firmly underneath my chassis - praying that my pursuer would show mercy. But, as I am not a mincing coward, I opted for option #2. Playing on Sgt. Lypton’s hesitation in switching on his signal lights, I continued my pace.
Where an amateur thespian would dial his performance down in the face of a negative write-up, I stepped on the gas pedal and continued my ninety-mile-per-hour blitz down Interstate 70, Locking Sgt. Lypton and I into a game of wits. A game I, very likely, would lose.
Unsure of how long my performance would go on I began to regret that I had not eaten since this morning. The day had unfolded just as many had before it when we found ourselves traveling by car. The night before, as per our custom, my accomplice and I had selected one of the very fine lodges along I-70 to stay take our evening's respite. Not that we had any intention of leasing a room. Our sedan and a parking spot would provide lodging enough. At morning-time, my compatriot and I proceeded to fold ourselves amongst the legitimate travelers making their way in and out of the lodge. Waving to the concierge who undoubtedly assumed that we had checked in before he started his shift. Once inside, we would happily proceed to enjoy the lobby restroom, for a quick “hobo-bath” and, of course, the complimentary breakfast.
As I sped towards the horizon I resigned to the fact that the hot gravy and powdered eggs of our hotel had sustained me this far, but my desire for Kraft Services was now in full effect.
I charged on as the gap between Sgt. Lypton and I diminished and justification for not slowing closed proportionally. A cheer erupted in our car as the sign for Bud’s Refueling Station - 2 miles, flew by. Mr. Bud’s refueling station, with its flashing neon lights and $18 cartons of Marlboros was a perfect venue for a once-in-a-lifetime performance.
By the time I reached the exit ramp Sgt. Lypton was directly behind me and he was clearly intrigued by the plot of our little one-act play. The pursuit had become a dream balanced on the razor’s edge of waking. A dream that we would never know the end of if I slowed or he flipped on his lights. With the patience of a seasoned theatergoer Sgt. Lypton mirrored my turn signals and coasted into Bud’s establishment just behind me.
“The show must go on,” I said to myself, as I killed the engine and vaulted from the driver’s seat before the car came to a complete stop. In order to best view the conclusion of our scene Sgt. Lipton had strategically parked himself in a front-row seat between myself and the door. Little did he know but he was about to witness THE THE-A-TAH.
With the raw force of a man attempting to maintain control of a pencil held between his cheeks, I clenched my posterior and mimed the fastidiously measured steps of a man about to “leave it all on the stage,” as they say. Careful not to break the fourth wall, I hustled past Sgt. Lypton, my eyes, feet, and body pointed to stage left, towards the door. The motive of my character was perfectly clear; do not soil pants.
Now, at the top of the story, I stated that this little farce was performed for an audience of two. To expound on that point I should clarify that there were only two individuals who witnessed the entirety of the episode. As I threw the door to Bud’s open, the resulting ping invited the addition of the Valley State Women's Volleyball team to witness the third act of the performance.
Being a bachelor at this point in my life, the choice to hobble past the squad of eligible ladies clutching my stomach was only made out of the fear of the legal repercussions of faking a gastronomic episode to avoid a speeding ticket. The shame I was portraying suddenly gained new life as I was inspired by the tangible humiliation of having to ask Tiffany and Becky if I can scoot by in order to reach the lavatory. As I accomplished said scooting, the door pinged behind me, and the red-hot scorch of Sgt. Lypton’s gaze singed the hairs on the back of my neck as I hopped through the portal. His pursuit reaffirming my decision to subject myself to the embarrassment of trotting by the band of vixens.
As the door closes behind me the giggles of Samantha, Lizzie and Heather were drowned out by the roar of the hand dryer. A wash of thanks silently escaped my lips as I realized that the restroom was only designed to entertain the needs of a single occupant. Had this been a multi-occupant facility, I would have undoubtedly been reduced to making unsavory noises with my hands pressed against my face in one of the stalls should Sgt. Lypton join me in the facilities.
Sanctuary! I depress the actuator of the bathroom lock and immediately twist the knob for confirmation, inadvertently undoing the done.
Post cursing, I engage the button, again, and resist the urge to twist the knob, again. And finally, with the door supposedly locked behind me, I become confident that Sgt. Lypton would not be barging in whilst I bow and blowing kisses to my audience. I proceed to bow and blow kisses to my audience.
As I am now a prisoner in the bowels of the theater, I bide my time, out of fear that I might be mobbed by my adoring public (servant) upon exiting the crapper. The minutes drag on and to my undying shame the appeal of a convenience store roller-dog begins to turn and simmer in my mind. The slack tubes of meatish call to me but I hold my position, well aware of the fact that no encased deli product would be worth the price I would pay should I be confronted by Sgt. Lypton.
In order to distract myself from the dream of filling my guts with slurrified guts of miscellaneous farm critters, I take to examining the details of the restroom. The condom dispenser makes for an interesting read, but I find the claim of their delicious flavors dubious and move on. That's it actually. Just the condom dispenser. I read it twice and then sat staring blankly on the commode until I could take no more.
With a single wary eye, I peek through the crack of the curtain, and to my delight, Sgt. Lypton is not standing in the corridor. Still feigning the aftermath of my brush with gastro-tastrophe, I scamper behind a rack of pre-personalized license plates and scan the emporium for my critic. He is nowhere to be seen. I glance out the window where my companion is sitting on the hood of our sedan. I give I'm an inquisitorial wave. He motions that Sgt. Lypton has left the theater.
The music swells in my head, the neon lights shine bright and I grasp the roller-dog tongs and hold them high above my head - my Tony. I deal myself the choicest wiener and snag a bottle of bubbly and head to the counter. A disgruntled usher whose name tag reads Berth totals my purchase. She’s apparently been watching me and has quite possibly seen this play before. She is unimpressed. Her lack of enthusiasm for my performance is most evident but I am unfazed and continue to revel in my achievement.
I turn to leave when Berth pipes up, “Your friend left you these.” She slides a travel-size package of Imodium across the counter. I grin sheepishly, take the medicines from the counter, thank her, and exit into the moonlight.
