Peeing at the Circle K

January 14, 2013

Headed to Tucson this weekend to visit the kids, the Nordic Warrior Queen and I stopped in Florence to gas up. Naturally, she had to pee. “I had too much coffee.”

I didn’t want her to feel self-conscious about it, so I visited the men’s room. To keep her company, sort of. I figured I’d knock on the wall, so she’d know I was thinking of her while the bishop and I wrote my name in the urinal.

Holy Christ, it was the worst smelling restroom on the planet. Not even Aunt Clarinda’s outhouse was so rank. I actually peeked in the stalls, to make sure someone hadn’t died in there.

I complained to the manager. “That place smells like shit.”

This guy was pulling down maybe $20K a year, and worked sixty hours a week to boot. He didn’t care. “What do you expect? It’s a toilet.”

“Geez, you could at least throw some Pine-Sol down, Ed.”

He looked suspiciously at me. “How’d you know my name?”

I pointed at his name badge.

Ed grew red in the face. “You gonna buy something?” I could tell he wanted me to leave.

What an asshole. “How about the fifty bucks of overpriced gas I just put in my truck, Ed?”

I admit it, he stared me down. I bought a Red Bull just to spite him.

The minute I got to Tucson, I called Circle-K corporate to complain about their filthy restrooms. It was my civic duty.

“We’ll get someone on that right away, sir. Clean restrooms are our motto!”

I’ve heard of worse mottos, but not by much. I thanked her anyway and hung up the phone.

Driving back to Phoenix, the Nordic Warrior had to stop in Florence again. This time she blamed the cherry slush she’d had at eegee’s. “I have to go too,” I said.

It wouldn’t be so easy this time, stink or no stink. A long line of men stood waiting before the restroom door. Most were prison guards from the penitentiary across the street, together with a handful of truck drivers and two Harley drivers.

“What’s going on,” I asked the nearest of them.

“There’s a big Indian chick in there, cleaning the toilets.”

“How long has she been in there?”

“Half an hour, at least.” He crossed his legs. “I’m dying, man. I must have drunk ten cups of coffee this morning.”

I went to the front of the line. “What’s going on here?”

The guy in front was nearly in tears. He could only point with one hand and clutch his leaking penis with the other.

There in the rest room hulked a gorilla of a woman. She stood four-foot eight and weighed in at 350 pounds easy. Her arms were the size of coffee cans, her shoulders those of a first-string linebacker. The Circle K name tag pinned to her massive breast said ANNY

“Get out,” grunted ANNY, and swung the mop at my head, nearly decapitating me.

I turned to the would-be urinaters behind me. “We don’t have to stand for this,” I shouted.

“Yeah!” they roared.

“Nobody can stop us from peeing!” Boy, I was really wound up.

“Damn right!” agreed fifteen fidgeting men.

I took another look at ANNY. “Umm. I’m going outside.”

Three minutes later we stood lined up behind the Circle K, writing our various names along the concrete wall—Jim, Tim, Cole, Bob, Sebastian (really had to go), Fred, Will, Tom, Paul, Adam (had a shy bladder and couldn’t get past A), Eli, Alex, Jack, Nathaniel (peed on Jack’s left foot), and Carl.

That’s when the cops showed up. “We’ve had a report of public indecency,” they announced, and whipped out the cuffs.  We barely had time to shake off before they had us in the paddy wagon.

I knew this was all Ed’s doing. “This is all Ed’s doing,” I protested as they swung the door shut. It was the biggest arrest in Florence history.

Some of the guys used their one phone call to consult with their urologists. Others called their wives or lawyers. I called Circle K.

“What the hell was that for, Ed?”

He acted like he knew nothing about it. “I know nothing about it,” he said.

“You called the cops on us!”

“You said you didn’t like our restrooms,” he said sweetly. “I was only trying to provide good customer service. Sorry if you ladies couldn’t hold your bladders.”

“Ed, you son of a…”

“At Circle K, clean restrooms are our motto,” he said, and hung up the phone.

Since I’d already used my phone call, I had to spend the night in jail. The Nordic Warrior Queen proceeded home to Phoenix. She missed me so much that she and the Sister Wife went across the street to the Sandbar. It was Lady’s night; half off queso and two-for-one on Miller Lite.

At least my jail cell had a clean toilet.

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