It was August, a hot-as-hell, humid Georgia summer afternoon. We — “we” being my wife, my daughter, and I— had just gotten out of church and decided to go shopping for my sister’s birthday gift. We went to the mall and shopped up and down with no luck. My wife suggested that we try TJ Maxx.
We hopped in the car and drove over to said Maxx store. We were there browsing for 30 to 45 minutes when, all of a sudden, I had a bit of a “tummy ache.” I say “tummy ache” in sarcastic quotes because the “tummy ache” felt more like labor pains.
Anyway, I ignored the pain at first. Then another stomach cramp hit. After the cramp passed, I started scoping the store for a restroom... just in case. Then another cramp.
I said to Leslie, “I’ll be back in a bit,” and went off to ask a store clerk where the restrooms were. The only clerk I could find was way up at the front of the store at the register. I saw her and casually made my way up to her.
ME: “Pardon me. Where are your restrooms?”
CLERK: The clerk never looked up. She waved off to her right and said, “There,” pointing to the back right corner of the store.
ME: “Thank you.”
Then I proceeded off to the back right corner, as she had directed. When I got back there, there were three doors. No signs, no pointers, no icons, nothing. Just three doors.
I walked into the first door. Nope. Storeroom. Try again.
I walked into the second door. Nuh-uh. Manager’s office. Next door.
By this time, I was in trouble.
Finally, the third door. It had to be relief.
I crashed through the third door... and it was a hallway. At the end of the hall, I saw the universal man and woman icons for restroom. I cautiously, made my way down the hall.
Cautiously... Who am I kidding? I was sprinting, teary-eyed, full-pace down the hall with my hand over my ass because I was crowning, for God’s sake. The Snickers was knocking on cotton.
I GOTTA GO NOW!!!
I finally got to the men’s restroom.
Locked.
I turned around and tried the women’s restroom. This was not a moment to be worried about pride.
Locked!
I DIDN’T ASK THE SALES WENCH FOR A FREAKIN’ KEY! I DIDN’T KNOW I NEEDED A KEY!
Thanks to TJ Maxx’s crack security team, I was about to shit myself.
I was shouting prayers to God and all of his possible incarnations at this point when I noticed a side corridor a few feet back up the hall.
I ran to the corridor. I saw a back entrance to the store, complete with the alarm that would go off if I chose to go that route, and I saw a closet. A broom closet, to be exact. I figured I’d take the back door, buzzer and all, if the broom closet was locked. But first, I had to try the closet.
I pushed, shoved, and tackled the closet door.
It opened up. Just as pretty as you please.
You never know true humility until you’ve done number two while perched precariously on a tall trash can in a hot broom closet of a mid-scale retail department store in August in Georgia.
My prayers to God and all of his possible incarnations were answered, though. Not only was the closet unlocked, but there was a whole case of toilet paper in there with me. It’s was a good thing.
After all the drama, I tidied up and casually strolled out to my wife, who was in the cookware section of the store. She turned and looked at me, and her jaw dropped. She stuttered a bit and asked me what was wrong.
I was white as a ghost. I was drenched in sweat. My hair was a mess. My shirt was untucked. My pants were wrinkled.
I told her, “I don’t feel well. I’ll wait for you in the car.”
Then I casually strode past her without even giving her time to acknowledge my comment.
Relaxed in the thought that I had just gone through a personal disaster of biblical proportions and nobody was the wiser.
Face saved.
Then she blurted out, “IS THAT MUD ON YOUR SHIRTTAIL?!”
Thanks, Les.