True Story
Advice I Received While Taking a Dump in an Airport Restroom
Tell Uncle Mike he owes me 38 bucks
When the phone rings, you answer it. It doesn’t matter that nobody makes phone calls anymore, it’s probably spam, and you are currently sitting on a toilet in the Denver International Airport. ¹
Everyone answers the phone when taking the kids to the pool. What do you mean that’s gross? Are you some bougie microbiologist who has reservations about smearing fecal bacteria on their phone and then holding it a quarter inch from their face? I don’t work for the CDC, I’m not-a-doctor, and I’m not sure where I was going with either of those qualifiers.
As I ponder the mystery of public potty protocols, the unforgettable siren’s song erupts from the pooper cubical two doors to my left.
Bbbrrrrrrrrriiiiinnnngggg.
Bbbrrrrrrrrriiiiinnnngggg.
There’s no way the gentleman squatter crowning his Thai food achievements is going to answer his
Yo! Who dis?
I hear the eloquent gentleman clearly, but the voice on the other end of the call is muffled and choppy.
[something something, Riker’s Island State Penitentiary. Inmate #27296]
Mom!
In my undisclosed number of years on Planet Earth, I never expected to eavesdrop on a stranger’s mom calling from prison. Especially not on the toilet. No wonder he answered despite his diffident deuce dropping.
A good son always takes calls from his mother — Especially if she is currently incarcerated. It’s not like she can call back after the ladies of cell block four finish their paint-and-sip class. ²
[continued muffled conversation. Money]
Mom, I just flew garbageairlines.biz and they charged me $38 bucks for my f***ing carryon. You tell Uncle Mike he owes me $38 bucks.
If she’s in prison, how is she supposed to tell Uncle Mike about— oh, I see — Uncle Mike’s in jail too.
[quiet, muffled sounds]
Speak up. I’m taking a sh*t in the Denver Airport. I won’t be back to Jersey for a while.
[muffled gibberish POLICE more gibberish]
Don’t trust him. Don’t trust anybody. From now on you gotta act like everyone’s the police.
I imagine an ’80s buddy cop movie, where the head of the neighborhood watch goes around making citizens arrest. It’s like that — but backward. Next person I see in uniform, I’ll greet them with a “Top of the mornin’ to ya, constable O’Malley.” Except I’m not Irish.
Or does the Dr. Phil of the loo mean to be more like Sting’s version of the Police?
“Roxanne. You don’t have to put on the red light. You’ll be caught and calling your son on the toilet. Rooooxxxannn”
Hold on, Mom, I heard a noise
“You don’t have to sell your” — I stop my Grammy-nominated musical performance and wait for the conversation to continue. Sitting nervously, I wonder if he’s a criminal too. Will I be another statistic, one of the eleven hundred adults annually murdered in public restrooms?
[muffled voice getting agitated]
Listen, Mom. I can’t talk all day. I have sh*t to do. ³
I hold my breath until he leaves the room.
Footnotes:
¹ Everything in this story is 100% true except for Roxanne.
² What’s the prison equivalent? Shanks and Tanks?
³ Can you believe we live in such a magical world where you overhear someone un-ironically declaring, “I have sh*t to do,” from the toilet? Bucket list gold!
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