buildings on Main Street have strange green and yellow flags displayed this morning, and as I head to the library, I see one of them hanging on a decrepit-looking Victorian with four mailboxes nailed next to its peeling front door. I wonder why the town elders haven’t insisted on sprucing up the place. Perhaps there’s an article here.
Then, in the middle of a thought about getting a quote from the mayor on the scarcity of low-income housing, my bowels clench, my face turns clammy, and I suddenly need a bathroom.
Immediately
. I scan the street for a restaurant, a gas station—anything that might have a public restroom.
I haven’t had this kind of urgency since grade school. I press my knees together, fighting a wave of panic as I try to think.
The pawnshop is locked and the mechanic’s shop looks abandoned. I eye a big oak behind one of the more dilapidated houses but decide that I can’t do that. The only thing remotely possible is to try the tattoo parlor two houses away. But if I don’t hurry, I’ll soil myself. The urgency is so horrible Inearly weep. In an instant I feel less than human. But the terrible need to go is too strong for embarrassment. Gripping my purse tightly, I race to the tattoo parlor and breeze inside.
I have no time for chitchat, no time to waste.
I take in the hundreds of designs pinned up on the wall. I see a couple of empty dentist-like chairs, a long counter with shelves and supplies behind it. Music from a local rock station is playing, while an underlying buzz that sounds like a dentist’s drill comes from a far corner, where I assume a tattoo is in progress. The most likely place for a bathroom is in the back, and I stride in that direction as if I have every right to.
“Hey, guys,” I say lightly, shooting a glance at the tattoo artist and his victim, a thin guy with wispy facial hair getting his calf tattooed. “Is there a bathroom here?”
“Straight back,” says the tattoo artist, bent over his work and not looking up. “Past the curtain.”
“Great,” I say, never breaking stride. “Thanks.”
I brush aside the curtain, mentally blessing the incurious, straightforward answer while frantically searching in the dim light for a bathroom door. The first one I open is to a supply closet. I bite my lip to keep from moaning. My legs start shaking from the strain. I have no time. The second door leads to a bathroom. I slam the door shut, not even bothering to lock it. Fumble with my panties. Stagger to the toilet in the nick of time.
Afterward, I lean against a midnight-blue wall, waiting for the pain and nausea to pass, for my legs to stop shaking.
I wash my hands, then cup water in my hands and sip,feeling the cool, metallic liquid slide all the way down my throat and into my quivering stomach. I close my eyes and try to regroup. With heavy certainty, I know that something is terribly wrong with my body. It’s an unnerving, frightening thought. Is there an official prayer for “Oh shit, what the hell am I supposed to do now?”
I take a shuddering breath and realize I’d better not stay in the bathroom too long; it was weird enough for me to come in here like I did. Squaring my shoulders, I practice smiling and go back to the main room of the parlor.
The buzzing has stopped, so the tattoo must be finished. The facial-hair guy admires a heavy black cross floating in a rectangle of conspicuously shaved skin in the middle of his calf. The skin around the tattoo is red and puffy.
Are my new symptoms my very own cross to bear? It’s a devastating thought, and one I am unable to deal with in public, in front of strangers. So, for the moment, I push it away.
“Yeah, that’s it, man,” says Facial Hair in front of a large, floor-length mirror, his eyes on the reflection of the cross. “That’s exactly what I wanted. Thanks.”
“Good,” says the tattoo guy, carefully covering the cross with a gauze square, then snapping off his protective black gloves.
Then, in the middle of a thought about getting a quote from the mayor on the scarcity of low-income housing, my bowels clench, my face turns clammy, and I suddenly need a bathroom.
Immediately
. I scan the street for a restaurant, a gas station—anything that might have a public restroom.
I haven’t had this kind of urgency since grade school. I press my knees together, fighting a wave of panic as I try to think.
The pawnshop is locked and the mechanic’s shop looks abandoned. I eye a big oak behind one of the more dilapidated houses but decide that I can’t do that. The only thing remotely possible is to try the tattoo parlor two houses away. But if I don’t hurry, I’ll soil myself. The urgency is so horrible Inearly weep. In an instant I feel less than human. But the terrible need to go is too strong for embarrassment. Gripping my purse tightly, I race to the tattoo parlor and breeze inside.
I have no time for chitchat, no time to waste.
I take in the hundreds of designs pinned up on the wall. I see a couple of empty dentist-like chairs, a long counter with shelves and supplies behind it. Music from a local rock station is playing, while an underlying buzz that sounds like a dentist’s drill comes from a far corner, where I assume a tattoo is in progress. The most likely place for a bathroom is in the back, and I stride in that direction as if I have every right to.
“Hey, guys,” I say lightly, shooting a glance at the tattoo artist and his victim, a thin guy with wispy facial hair getting his calf tattooed. “Is there a bathroom here?”
“Straight back,” says the tattoo artist, bent over his work and not looking up. “Past the curtain.”
“Great,” I say, never breaking stride. “Thanks.”
I brush aside the curtain, mentally blessing the incurious, straightforward answer while frantically searching in the dim light for a bathroom door. The first one I open is to a supply closet. I bite my lip to keep from moaning. My legs start shaking from the strain. I have no time. The second door leads to a bathroom. I slam the door shut, not even bothering to lock it. Fumble with my panties. Stagger to the toilet in the nick of time.
Afterward, I lean against a midnight-blue wall, waiting for the pain and nausea to pass, for my legs to stop shaking.
I wash my hands, then cup water in my hands and sip,feeling the cool, metallic liquid slide all the way down my throat and into my quivering stomach. I close my eyes and try to regroup. With heavy certainty, I know that something is terribly wrong with my body. It’s an unnerving, frightening thought. Is there an official prayer for “Oh shit, what the hell am I supposed to do now?”
I take a shuddering breath and realize I’d better not stay in the bathroom too long; it was weird enough for me to come in here like I did. Squaring my shoulders, I practice smiling and go back to the main room of the parlor.
The buzzing has stopped, so the tattoo must be finished. The facial-hair guy admires a heavy black cross floating in a rectangle of conspicuously shaved skin in the middle of his calf. The skin around the tattoo is red and puffy.
Are my new symptoms my very own cross to bear? It’s a devastating thought, and one I am unable to deal with in public, in front of strangers. So, for the moment, I push it away.
“Yeah, that’s it, man,” says Facial Hair in front of a large, floor-length mirror, his eyes on the reflection of the cross. “That’s exactly what I wanted. Thanks.”
“Good,” says the tattoo guy, carefully covering the cross with a gauze square, then snapping off his protective black gloves.
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