Mexico Beach

We'd been on the road long enough
that all the Waffle Houses were becoming
Waffle Kings and I couldn't hold out any longer
on changing my feminine hygiene product.

Being on a road trip with two boys, I didn't want to
call too much attention to it,
just said I had to pee, wanted to stop before gas stations
became obsolete.

We pulled into the station and walked in
a motley, smelly crew. Tired from the road,
squinting at the fluorescents,
wobbly from the ride. And to my disappointment,
I found out that
the ladies restroom was out of service.

Fuck.

I pulled Gink aside, asked him if we could
maybe try to find somewhere else and
as we stood talking, we noticed two black women
emerging from the men's room. He nodded to me to
go for it. And I walked past an aisle of motor oils and
lighter fluids and
a short Mexican man in a red polo shirt
who gawked at me as I made my way in.

I'm normally not a squatter. Girls who squat are
the bane of my existence. I feel they are a part of the problem
not the solution, and so I was left cursing the black women
who left puddles of urine all over the seat.

Hovering, I reached down, tugging on the string
when I heard someone
pulling the door handle of the stall I was in.
"Just a minute," I called out
hurriedly trying to finish, when an arm caught my eye.

An arm that was hoisting it's owner
up and partially over the stall partition
and I saw with terror, half of the face of the Mexican gawker.

"GET DOWN ASSHOLE!" I screamed, shoving my tampon inside
of me quicker than I'd have liked and pulling up my pants
"GET THE FUCK DOWN!"

I flushed and ran out of the stall as he stood
creepily by the sink, facing the mirror
supposedly washing his hands.