The Time My Mom Used a Men’s Bathroom

When they came out with laughter, I knew something was wrong…

My mom was always something of a priss.

It took little to offend her sensibilities, and she always thought of herself in much haughtier standards than she ever really deserved.

When growing up, I would sometimes take great pleasure in putting her off-balance, at least as much as I could get away with.

When I was around ten, my parents decided to go on vacation to another state and I, of course, got dragged along.

It was the onset of the eighties, with sounds of Carter on the airwaves and what most, growing up in that era, would consider the best of music playing on every dime-store jukebox you could find.

We lived in Indiana at the time and the plan was to go spend time with family at a campground in the middle of the wilds of Michigan. My ten-year-old brain couldn’t fathom the idea of Michigan being the center of tourist attractions or the height of wonderment.

Especially not when there were other, more wondrous things to behold further south. Disneyworld, anyone?

Alas, it was not to be. Off to the glorious fun-filled woods in the back country of, even in springtime, rather cold Michigan.

They filled the car with smoke as both my parents sat in the front seat taking in the sights. I did my best to breathe through it, trying to grasp even a modicum of air through the once-every-twenty-minute-argument my father and I would have over me cracking the window.

It was like he had some sort of aerodynamic sense, planning out every mile per gallon of the trip based on the fact that the windows had to remain closed and the air conditioner off.

The first hour of that was fun. The second hour of the drive less-so, as my stomach turned a little green with the second-hand fogging up what little vision I had at the time.

When dad finally pulled in to a truck stop, shouting to the rest of the car that he was hungry and we’d be stopping for a while, I dove through the door and gasped for air like it was something holy.

The place was one of those little dives you find in Americana, with a range of semis parked out front and people coming in and out, filtering through the weird French-doors-that-weren’t. A couple ran their hands across the dog sitting on the front steps, and it, in turn, barely raised its head at the attention.

Through the doors we talked, the sounds of traffic passing by on the four-lane highway a hundred feet away cut off by the din of conversation and music spreading through the building.

It smelled delicious, fried burgers and eggs already on a bunch of the tables lined along the walls. A gnawing hunger as my tongue danced in the saliva rapidly replaced the queasiness I’d been fighting for the past miles.

We were led to a small table toward the center of the place by a waitress who looked exhausted. She tossed a couple of menus down and walked away without giving us much of a second glance.

We looked through the menu and, when the waitress finally came back to the table with a couple of waters and a wan smile, we told her what we’d like. After a few minutes, I caught my mom whispering to dad that she had to go use the restroom.

Dad shrugged, as he usually did when it came to that sort of thing and mom got up without much other fanfare, making her way to the back of the restaurant and a long, darkened hallway.

After seeing a few other people filter in and out, I lost interest, passing the few minutes with one of those weird little wooden puzzles sitting on the table. Ever see those in these little dive eateries? They make a great distraction while your stomach is trying to call for attention.

The food arrived and mom still hadn’t come out, but dad and I thought little it. We dug in, the first bites of burger still in my mouth, when she finally came back to the table in a rush.

Without sitting, her breaths rapid, she hissed, “Ted, we have to go.”

My dad glanced at her, his own mouth full, and tried to mouth the question of why.

She shook her head, and I could see she was visibly upset, but it didn’t seem like she was hurt or anything.

She just whispered again, “We have to go.”

It was then two burly, bearded men walked past the table, and as they looked at mom they laughed aloud, one of them slapping the shoulder of the other.

My dad put his burger on his plate and asked, “Shirley, what did you do?”

“Just…” Mom’s voice halted, but she picked it back up again as she sat down in her chair. “Just forget it.”

Her face was red, and she couldn’t lift her eyes.

“What happened?” he pushed again, trying to get her to open up.

“I… I thought they made bathrooms different up here, okay?”

Dad and I looked at each other strangely, confusion written on each of our faces.

When she finally spoke it, we broke out in laughter, trying to control ourselves with little effect.

My mother, in her infinite wisdom or some sort of twisted fate, ended up accidentally going into the men’s bathroom and, not realizing what she had done, hiked up her skirt and sat on one of the urinals to go.

And that’s when the truck drivers entered, finding this strange woman perched atop the one place someone shouldn’t sit.

When dad finally caught his breath from laughing, he asked her the big question.

“We’re only a couple hundred miles from home. How different do you think bathrooms are going to be in Michigan?”

I don’t think the experience is one those truckers will ever forget.

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