too wide, and both squirts straddled the target. Droplets sprinkled my bare legs.
I crouched and leaned forward, hamstrings shaking, trying to lessen the distance the water had to travel and decrease the area covered. Finally, both jets collided with the walls of the hole and sprinkled downward. I moaned with relief (
Heaven!
), clenching my pelvic muscles and forcing the stream out to finish faster.
A loud crunch resounded through the stall as the right rear wheel â the wheel I was almost directly above â entered and exited what felt like a pothole of satanic depths. My feet left the floor, slid back, up, and for a brief moment I was weightless, an astronaut of the loo. My hands released their fleshy tube to flail for a stable surface. Urine cascaded out of my now-undisciplined member, coating the toilet, the sink, my arms. A single thought popped into my head, barely registering in the onrush of adrenaline flooding into my system:
gross
. Gravity then resumed, and my knees slammed down on the sharp front ledge of the toilet. I gasped in torment, my mouth sucking in air, my body preparing for the great-grandmother of shrieks, when the recoil of the liquid in the urinal nether-pit discharged a perfect storm of disinfectant slurry directly into my face. And then I did scream, long and heartily, my eyes blind and roaring, swords thrust deep in my sockets and forcefully stabbing my brain, Justin Timberlake assaulting my ears, moaning about the girl he could never have. The taste of chunky bleach overwhelmed my senses, became my world. There was nothing to the universe but searing white torture, chemical death. My stomach rebelled, vomit flowed from my mouth. My body battered itself about the tiny room, insane with agony. My legs tangled in my pants, now down at my ankles and mopping up the liquid. My balance shifted as the bus took a hard turn and I fell into the door, my hands now operating as my eyes, grabbing for everything, anything. A flat surface, a knob, a depression.
The sink! Water!
I twisted the faucet, grasping at where water should pour forth but feeling nothing. I squinted an eye open, earning another knife-thrust. No water. Above the sink, a gray plastic device labeled ANTIBACTERIAL HAND SCRUB was affixed to the wall. I squeezed the dispenserâs lever feverishly, filling my palm with clear gel. I rubbed it over my face, my mouth, my tongue, swishing it through my teeth, gargling, spitting, yelling with equal parts shame and revulsion all the while. Still frantically rubbing, I slid down to the floor and curled my legs to my chest, gagging as my tear ducts worked overtime.
An eternity later, my eyes smarting but clear, I rose unsteadily to my feet, leaving my pants down and doing my best to ignore the gruesome fluid saturating the fabric. I grabbed handfuls of tissue paper and rubbed at my face, applying more hand gel that went on clear but came back blue. I peeked at myself in the metal. Streaks of cobalt and sapphire ribboned down and across my face, giving me the look of a mercenary camouflaged for a
fabulous
night on the town. I must have popped a few blood vessels; my eyes bulged red. Globules of almost-digested cheese and dough spackled the front of my shirt and pretty much the entirety of the vehicular outhouse. I massaged my face with clean paper, lightening the hues, then applied more scrub to my arms, the urine smell lessening, my fingertips inked. How I was going to leave the room wasnât a thought to be crossed yet; the only thing important in the world was cleaning myself.
I scrubbed harder, almost frantic.
My head pulsed. The veins squirmed in protest to their forced compression. The skin around my skull felt too tight, constricting my braincase, as if it was a wool toque thrown heedlessly into the dryer. My arms felt anesthetized. It was difficult to hold on to the wads of paper.
Adrenaline crash
, I decided, forcing my hands to continue their rubdown. Bulbs of sweat loosened
I crouched and leaned forward, hamstrings shaking, trying to lessen the distance the water had to travel and decrease the area covered. Finally, both jets collided with the walls of the hole and sprinkled downward. I moaned with relief (
Heaven!
), clenching my pelvic muscles and forcing the stream out to finish faster.
A loud crunch resounded through the stall as the right rear wheel â the wheel I was almost directly above â entered and exited what felt like a pothole of satanic depths. My feet left the floor, slid back, up, and for a brief moment I was weightless, an astronaut of the loo. My hands released their fleshy tube to flail for a stable surface. Urine cascaded out of my now-undisciplined member, coating the toilet, the sink, my arms. A single thought popped into my head, barely registering in the onrush of adrenaline flooding into my system:
gross
. Gravity then resumed, and my knees slammed down on the sharp front ledge of the toilet. I gasped in torment, my mouth sucking in air, my body preparing for the great-grandmother of shrieks, when the recoil of the liquid in the urinal nether-pit discharged a perfect storm of disinfectant slurry directly into my face. And then I did scream, long and heartily, my eyes blind and roaring, swords thrust deep in my sockets and forcefully stabbing my brain, Justin Timberlake assaulting my ears, moaning about the girl he could never have. The taste of chunky bleach overwhelmed my senses, became my world. There was nothing to the universe but searing white torture, chemical death. My stomach rebelled, vomit flowed from my mouth. My body battered itself about the tiny room, insane with agony. My legs tangled in my pants, now down at my ankles and mopping up the liquid. My balance shifted as the bus took a hard turn and I fell into the door, my hands now operating as my eyes, grabbing for everything, anything. A flat surface, a knob, a depression.
The sink! Water!
I twisted the faucet, grasping at where water should pour forth but feeling nothing. I squinted an eye open, earning another knife-thrust. No water. Above the sink, a gray plastic device labeled ANTIBACTERIAL HAND SCRUB was affixed to the wall. I squeezed the dispenserâs lever feverishly, filling my palm with clear gel. I rubbed it over my face, my mouth, my tongue, swishing it through my teeth, gargling, spitting, yelling with equal parts shame and revulsion all the while. Still frantically rubbing, I slid down to the floor and curled my legs to my chest, gagging as my tear ducts worked overtime.
An eternity later, my eyes smarting but clear, I rose unsteadily to my feet, leaving my pants down and doing my best to ignore the gruesome fluid saturating the fabric. I grabbed handfuls of tissue paper and rubbed at my face, applying more hand gel that went on clear but came back blue. I peeked at myself in the metal. Streaks of cobalt and sapphire ribboned down and across my face, giving me the look of a mercenary camouflaged for a
fabulous
night on the town. I must have popped a few blood vessels; my eyes bulged red. Globules of almost-digested cheese and dough spackled the front of my shirt and pretty much the entirety of the vehicular outhouse. I massaged my face with clean paper, lightening the hues, then applied more scrub to my arms, the urine smell lessening, my fingertips inked. How I was going to leave the room wasnât a thought to be crossed yet; the only thing important in the world was cleaning myself.
I scrubbed harder, almost frantic.
My head pulsed. The veins squirmed in protest to their forced compression. The skin around my skull felt too tight, constricting my braincase, as if it was a wool toque thrown heedlessly into the dryer. My arms felt anesthetized. It was difficult to hold on to the wads of paper.
Adrenaline crash
, I decided, forcing my hands to continue their rubdown. Bulbs of sweat loosened
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