The rest rooms are different in the South than what I was accustomed to-I am referring to etiquette and levels of privacy. I am a biggie for personal space when it comes time to do the number two dance. (Others feel different, I know). The stall doors, if there were any, consisted of a single sheet of drift wood that hung on a hinge only shoulder high and swung like a set of swinging doors in the front of a saloon when the wind blew. The first restroom also contained two teenage boys utilizing the sinks as bathtubs: I won't get into it.
The second rest room was a bit better. There was no one present as I swung the door open to the auspicious area. With one arm guarding my aching belly, I hobbled over to the furthest stall that rested in the corner. Peering over the four foot five door, I noticed it was clean enough in there; all except for the floor. That was easily avoided though. All I had to do was to hold my pants at knee length being careful not to let it touch the floor-you know, cooties.
Carefully, I wiped off the seat and laid down extra sheets to form a hopeful toilet condom between my butt cheeks and any contaminated areas. I sat and went about my business griping the front of my pants carefully not to let it slide and make contact with the wet ground. Moments later, two black shoes approached. Leisurely, they walked across the stall and stopped a few feet away, turned forty-five degrees and approached the stall door-then stopped.
Upwardly, my eyes slowly crept the stall door finally reaching the face of a smiling middle-aged man. "How y'all doin?" he called out.
"Heh?"
"How y'all doin?" he called out again.
"Um…guess…guess I'm hanging in there," I answered. He nodded to me affirmatively and proceeded onward.
<Scene change>
We made it to Houston a few hours later, and by then, the cramps had passed, but I was still sleepy for the most part.
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