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Our story begins in a bathroom far from the civilized world - Sandy Utah, to be exact. I was in the middle of an epic road trip with my very pregnant wife, enroute to Los Angeles, and we found ourselves having a midmorning Egg McMuffin. The McDonalds in Sandy Utah was actually quite clean and pleasant, and after ordering a modest amount of food we chose a booth warm with the morning sun. I remember very vividly the patterns and shadows cast on the tile floor as the sunlight streamed through the indoor PlayPlace. My beautiful wife watched longingly at the children playing, some with abandon others with trepidation, and absentmindedly rested her hand on her modest baby bump. I remember distinctly feeling light and happy - I was married to a gorgeous woman who loved me, the baby was coming along perfectly, and I was eating a breakfast sandwich.
Then it hit me. That feeling that all men know. Deep in my gut I knew... I had The Insta-Shits. The Insta-Shits is a curious affliction. It has no known precursor (I hadn't eaten anything in the previous 10 hours) and it has only one cure: finding a bathroom immediately. Like right goddam now. So I did what any rational human being would do. I dropped my Egg McMuffin and hauled ass to the bathroom like the very hounds of hell were chasing me. My wife (I'd like to imagine) simply shrugged her shoulders, already immune to my eccentricites, and continued to delight in the play of children.
I was not so lucky. After a close call with a tray-bearing teenager and nearly tripping on a baby stroller, I made it to the bathroom. It was going to be close - the sweating had already begun. To my complete delight, I found the bathroom to be empty, the stall door open and inviting. The layout of the bathroom was the standard McDonalds affair - one stall with a urinal placed very close, sink and mirror on the opposite side of the room. I managed to lock the stall door and after much inventive swearing (Holy dammitshitbitch, etc.) I performed a maneuver that impressed even me. Without getting too technical, Imagine I was an A-10 Warthog performing a low-altitude strafing run, and you get the gist. As is always the case with the Insta-Shits, I immediately felt better. I was again the master of my colon.
Then I heard someone open the bathroom door. Now, remember, my senses were hyper-attuned to my environment (every man who is shitting in a strange place can hear the tiniest of sounds - we have evolved this way.) and I heard a noise I could not place at first. A tappity-tappity-tappity sound. Water dripping from the faucet? Rats in the ceiling? I couldn't pinpoint it. Then I heard some very panicked breathing. It started suddenly, as if the person had been holding their breath for the entire time. It was all very confusing, and I considered calling out to the person, but immediately decided against it.
Then it hit me - tappity-tappity-tappity - some poor kid was doing the pee-pee dance in the bathroom because I was occupying (although defiling would be a more appropriate word) the only available stall. I hurriedly began finishing up in the stall, double-flushing to ensure all evidence of my malfiesance was washed away, tucking in my shirt, buttoning my pants, all to try and keep a poor kid from peeing their pants. Then I exited the stall.
There was no kid. In fact, the bathroom was empty, which was strange, because I didn't hear anyone open the door. Instead, in the urinal was the biggest, most urgently deposited pile of wet shit I have ever seen. It looked like a mound of lumpy chocolate soft-serve ice cream. I gawked at it. "What the shit...?" I queried. The shit did not respond. It sat motionless, seemingly daring me to alert someone of its presence, almost taunting me. Yeah, I'm a shit in the urinal. What are you going to do about it, pussy? I was going to do nothing. In fact, I felt the urgent need to be elsewhere, lest this monstrosity be attributed to me.
So I ran. I tore out of the bathroom, grabbed my wife by the arm, and without explanation, opened the passenger door, urged her into the car, and sped away from the restaurant. After a few miles my wife was able to coax the horrors from me, and like a truly excellent wife, she laughed at me, but assured me that she could fill in the gaps in my story.
Apparently, since I had been away from the table for quite some time, she kept glancing towards the bathroom door. It was because of this that she noticed a FedEx truck pull briskly into the parking lot of the McDonalds, and saw the driver leap (that was the word she used) from the passenger door and run into the bathroom. Less than 30 seconds later, she saw him hastily leaving the bathroom, tucking his shirt in as he went, and exit the parking lot with a bit of tire-squealing.
It all made sense now. The Mystery Fed-Ex Driver and I were Insta-Shit brothers. The malady had struck us both simultaneously, and he had the misfortune to walk into an occupied bathroom. I suppose I can't blame him - he must have been so scared. Sweaty and dancing his tappity-tappity-tappity dance on the tile floor, his options dwindling before his eyes. He made the choice we all would have made, the only rational choice. He shit in the urinal. He did it so I didn't have to. I will be eternally grateful for his sacrifice. I still have questions, though. What did he use for toilet paper? Why did he choose that particular bathroom? And most importantly, why did the Insta-Shits choose us both at that moment? I'm not sure I need answers, though. It's better that this chance meeting be clouded in mystery. It gives me hope, in a way, that a man can sacrifice so much for another man - a man he never knew.
