Mikey vs. The Log Bomber

I think I might be psychic... The other day, I was at a gas station with my son, and we both had to pee, so we went in. There was this little boy stationed outside the bathroom door who immediately said, "There's someone in there."
OK. No big deal. We'd have gone somewhere else, but a) I REALLY had to pee (and so did my son), and b) we were at least 10 minutes from the nearest other public restroom. So we waited. And waited. A few minutes later came the lonesome sound of a solitary flush. No water running in the sink, no hand dryer blowing. Just a flush.

A few seconds later, the door opened and a man, presumably the door guard's father, exited, glanced furtively at my son and me, and quietly and firmly said, "Let's go."

His tone of voice was what caught my attention. It was as if a covert operation was in full swing, like he'd planted a bomb in the embassy toilet, and there were 30 seconds til detonation. I knew that we'd be stepping into a bad situation. But we REALLY had to pee.

We gave each other the look of condemned men, resigned to their fates, and took one long, last breath of gas station air before entering the flickering fluorescent light of the unisex bathroom. My son was quicker than I, perhaps more eager to see what we were walking into, and I saw him stagger a little as he neared the lone toilet. He looked despondently back at me. The guy had left floaters.

Not just your regular dingleberry floaters, mind you, but three hulking, fibrous logs, drifting in the circular currents of rust-stained waters in the rural gas station toilet. Worse yet, not even a hint of toilet paper in the water

Part of me cried out to just pee on the logs, give the obligatory flush and get out as soon as possible. The civic-minded part of me, the intuitive side, my "psychic" side, said NO! You don't just leave floaters in the public restroom! My spider-sense was going off... The air in my lungs was running thin. My son had already given himself over to shallow breathing, his mouth and nose covered by his shirt. My son! my mind raced... I was with my son. I must teach him the right thing to do...

My eyes watery, I lifted my leg and, precariously balanced, flushed the toilet with my foot. Like hell was I going to touch it with my hands.

After the third or fourth flush, holding the handle down the entire time to allow maximum flushage, the logs had gone. I let my son pee first. I'm a good dad like that.

While we were washing our hands, there was a knock at the door. "Occupied", I muttered through my shirt (I had, by this time, joined my son in the delicate art of the t-shirt gas mask, perfected by years of sharing a back seat with a brother who took great delights in the various sounds and smells he could produce rectally.) We raced through the dryer process. Neither of us could wait much longer. We used our pants as hand towels, and, with much balancing and shifting of weight, I opened the door with my foot. Hey! The Log Bomber hadn't used toilet paper OR washed his hands. I wasn't taking chances...

Outside the door, I saw the reason for my flash of spider-sense, my psychic strobe light. Waiting outside, obviously the one who knocked on the door, was a woman who sends a lot of business to a company I do quite a bit of work for. A LOT of business. And she, obviously, had to go potty. We spent an awkward moment exchanging pleasantries as I introduced her to my son, then parted ways, she to the stink-room, and we to pay for our gas and flee.

It struck me, as we drove away, that I might be psychic. But whether it was my urge to be a good father, my civic-mindedness, or perhaps just plain psychic phenomena, I was glad I had done the right thing, difficult though it had been. I had vanquished the floaters, and although this business associate might well believe that I have the foulest intestinal odor in the tri-county area, she would not remember me as "the guy who left floaters in the restroom." You see, doing the right thing is its own reward.

Besides I'm going to need the positive karma. The next time I see her, I'm going to apologize for the odor, and explain that my son had explosive diarrhea, so she'll associate the smell with him instead of me.

I'm a good dad like that...