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Toilet Justice by Juliet Aucreman
I thank Mrs. Wright, my kindergarten teacher, for teaching me to stand in line, a skill I’ve used ever since, while more...waiting to use a women’s bathroom. But still I suffer the experience. You see, Mrs. Wright neglected to address Restroom-Line Indignation (RLI), the indignation incited in waiting women when they witness men whooshing through men’s rooms.
Recently, my husband and I drove to Death Valley to see the spring wildflowers. From time to time, my husband sipped water, and now and then he’d pull over, pop out, and leave me to ponder. I drank little, willfully parching myself. For a dame, drinking and driving in lowland Death Valley is dangerous since there’s nothing to pop behind. The road stretches straight across the flat, leaving the far hills to loftier duties than hiding busy women.
After driving through Death Valley for about two hours, we reached “Badwater”, a salty body of water named by a prospector whose mule wouldn’t touch the stuff. The National Park Service has furthered the Badwater tradition by providing vaulted toilets.
I approached the bathroom lines, women’s and men’s, which, of course, were lopsided. Without a thought, I pulled in behind a woman, number fifteen in line. Then I peered ahead at the men’s line. Total men in line? Three.
Suddenly it occurred to me: the men’s line was shorter because the men had been going…all along the road.
Now we women, who’d had to wait and wait and wait while our partners had pulled over and over and over, and wait and wait and wait for a bend in the road that did not come, and wait and wait and wait for a tree that did not exist, and wait and wait and wait for a bathroom to appear…had finally found a latrine, and where yet again we waited, watching the men whoosh ahead.
That’s when the RLI struck.
“I can’t take it anymore,” I announced.
I walked up to the men’s line. In the men’s line, last place was fourth place – which, back in the women’s line, was a prestigious position. My comrades crowed in approval.
The man just ahead of me, dressed in Harley gear, welcomed me. Then he invited his girlfriend to come on over. Over she came.
“This is crazy,” I said to the men. “We’ve waited and waited and waited, and now we have to wait again. You’ve been peeing all along. You can pee anywhere you like.”
“Oh yeah?” said Mr. Harley. “There’s a fine for peeing anywhere but the latrine. You pay the fine, and I’ll be happy to pee most anywhere.”
The men ahead of him just looked down.
Three more women joined my new side. Behind them, a few more Harley men joined us. One said:
“If you guys keep coming over here, we’ll never get a turn.”
Saying this, he inspired two more women to cross over. We knew that separate was not equal.
Finally my turn came.
Before entering the latrine, I sucked in a lungful of Badwater air. My lungful started out bad, and only grew worse as I tried not to suck in another lungful, wondered whether I’d
lose my head, wondered why they couldn’t build some concrete bushes for women along the way, wondered what horrible person invented latrines, wondered whether I really needed to button up my pants before exiting, and wondered if God could intervene before I finally rushed out, gasping.
Dust coated my nostrils. Air seared my lungs. But something wonderful was happening. My fellow linebackers were smiling. Because for the first time in history, a men’s line had grown longer than a women’s line.
I smiled in sweet epiphany.
Only thirty years past kindergarten, I’d finally gotten my toilet justice. less
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May 23, 07
By: JulietAucreman
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humor funny short gag story article writer juliet aucreman robby starbuck
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