The night started out simple enough, or at least without any caution lights foretelling what would happen later on. Unless you count tacos as caution lights. Then of course, there were caution lights. But no one really counts those, even in retrospect. Anyway, I'm currently on a summer road trip with some friends. All total, there's five of us, which includes Brenton, Ben and his girlfriend, Amy, her friend, Crystal, and me. We borrowed Brenton's dad's RV for three weeks of driving across the country for no real reason other than instead of finding an adventure, we thought maybe the drive itself would be an adventure. That and anything that happened along the way.

        We pulled into an overnight RV park, somewhere outside of Lubbock, Texas. There was a truck-stop down the road so we walked there to get something to eat. This is where the previously mentioned tacos enter the story. But nothing happens here. It was simple enough. We finished our food then walked back to the RV and everyone got ready for bed. That includes showers, a few beers, and plenty of discussion about the sweltering heat outside. When everyone finally went to sleep, a few hours later, Amy and Crystal took the bed, Ben grabbed the reclining chair, I reserved the couch, and Brenton rolled out a sleeping bag for the floor. Within thirty minutes, I think everyone was asleep. Except me, or else how would I know the length of time it took for everyone else to be asleep?

        I couldn't sleep. I tried to block out the building grumble in my stomach and close my eyes until my eyelids no longer fought with me, but it wasn't working. And so that leads to this confession of truth. If I'm being honest and wish that what is about to be explained makes perfect sense, I can't tell the story while living in denial of this personal defect. The issue is, and it's hard to explain, but I have shitting issues. There's just something about the sound I can't get past. In an ideal world, every bathroom would be soundproofed. The smell, I can deal with. It's just that damn sound while I'm in there. I don't mind if I have to hear it, because it's pretty hard not to. I just don't want others to hear it. Not the initial sound, not the splashing water, not any of it. It makes me feel completely vulnerable for others to have an ear in on my most private of moments.

        So tonight, I obviously disregarded those transparent caution lights. I ate the tacos, or hell, maybe it was just the donuts from this morning. There really isn't a system to go by for this stuff. Regardless, I felt a strong need to use the restroom. Truthfully, I felt it many hours ago but tried to wait it out. Maybe I could wait until tomorrow morning and perhaps the issue would give up and go away for a few hours. But if you've ever tried to sleep while your colon is screaming at you, it doesn't quietly resolve itself.

        Everyone was asleep. I laid quietly for a moment to listen to any breathing patterns that an awake person makes, but I heard none. So I picked up my favorite book of the week and walked into the bathroom/sink/bedroom area of the RV and scrounged around for the light. There was nothing to be found in the actual toilet area of the RV, but there was a main switch in the hall. With a flick, I realized it controlled both the bathroom and the outside sink area, which isn't so bad except they're directly connected to the bedroom area. Crystal and Amy were asleep in that bed and disregarding the general principal of not waking people up, the walls in this RV are rather thin. So I didn't want them awoken by the lights on and then kept awake by the sounds of my bowels.

        I grabbed my book and walked outside and down the RV park to their public restrooms. I grabbed the handle and walked forward, but the twist didn't open the door and I walked shoulder-first into it. Looking over my shoulder to see if anyone saw me do that, I realized it was 3 AM and if I was worried about people thinking weird of me, maybe the simple idea of me carrying a book across a parking lot and into the general restroom would suffice anyone's laughter button.

        I grabbed the handle and twisted it again, but no luck. For some reason, in an RV park where people pull in at random times, they lock their restroom doors after a certain hour. Theoretically, I suppose this makes sense. RV campers do usually contain their own restrooms, so a public one is more of a convenience than something really needed.

        I've never been 0-2 on restrooms.

        My last option was to walk down the road to the truck-stop. So yeah, I'm staying in an RV that is hooked to water, sewer, and power lines. I'm in an RV park that has public restrooms. And now, when everyone should be in their beds asleep, I'm about to walk down the road for the restrooms in the truck-stop.

        I decided to go put my book back in the RV. For some reason, I didn't feel as motivated to sit, read, and enjoy the session in a truck-stop as I would in more intimate locations.

        When I put the book back in the RV, I made a tad more noise than I anticipated. At first I didn't think anything of it, but as I walked back through the parking lot, the fear of my friends waking and not knowing where I was and then search for me while I finished the digestive process seemed like a nightmare. More importantly, it seemed like a nightmare that held every potential to happen.

        So I went back to the RV and grabbed my cellphone, just in case they woke from what was then my third trip back in. I also grabbed a few dollars for a soda or whatever, so I'd have an excuse for this trip and not have to explain the ordeal.

        The truck-stop was not too far away, honestly. Maybe four or five hundred feet. Two minutes walking. Two minutes I could have saved, but luckily only two minutes, regardless. But two minutes can hold many definitions, depending on the style of walking one must use in order to cover that distance. If you're on your way to get some food, it's all optimistic and maybe even has a skip or two involved. But if you're doing a mock-penguin shuffle the entire way, each advancement is a reminder of the goal and the struggle that is taking place.

        I found the main entrance with only a little bit of trouble. I think every truck-stop has at least five different entrances. I skipped the restaurant entrance and went inside of the convenience area, then located the sign to the restrooms. I followed the arrows around all of the food (not something I was particularly happy with at the moment) and then down another hall which actually led to the first entrance I had passed but skipped because I thought it was just for the restaurant section. Had I only known every variant of customer shared the same restroom, I could have avoided the extra walking, when every step truly mattered on this particular journey.

        When I finally entered the restroom, I surveyed the situation. The room had five urinals, useless to me right then, and four stalls. The middle two were occupied, so I procured the far right one and locked the door. I think it was a handicap stall, but luckily the able-bodied don't get tickets for using them.

        Then came the waiting.

        I could hear the man directly to my left as he rustled the toilet paper every twenty seconds. I shouldn't have to hear that. The stall was almost a perfect construction, except some architect found it necessary to not finish the wall between myself and this nameless occupant beside me. We were completely divided by plaster and tile, save for a foot gap at the bottom, in which we could see each other's shoes. What's the importance of maintaining this gap in the wall? Is it just in case someone needs toilet paper, his neighbor can roll some in from the reserve in isle three?

        Then my problem came back to haunt me. Here I was, completely isolated from ever having to confront this person outside of the bathroom. If he finished before me, or I him, I could just wait it out until he left the restroom. But I just couldn't let myself go and commit to the sounds. I admit, I tried. But I stopped myself every time. It just seems so wrong to let lose in an environment that doesn't offer the utmost of privacy, even that of audible range.

        Again, I heard him rustling the toilet paper.

        I tried to time myself with his rustling so the sounds could blend in, but I was chicken-shit. What if I didn't calculate myself enough and he stopped rustling before I finished plopping?

        He flushed. I relaxed and rejoiced.

        Then I heard the toilet paper rustling again.

        False alarms are never cool, but what could I do? I decided to bide my time. I began to browse at my surroundings. I believe the toilet stall is the breeding ground for tomorrow's artists. And racists, if we're going to be fair. To my left, someone before me had drawn a fine rendition of a vagina and some other object that wasn't quite recognizable. I'm assuming it was abstract art. A few feet below that, another person had drawn a weird little character standing beside a penis. I'm not sure of the association between the two, but considering the medium of tile and pen, the strokes were well-done. And to my right sat a swastika. I think the intent here was less artistic and more motive based. Could have been due to the comment it was writing over: "White bitches go down on their knees when my black cock is what she sees." Maybe there was no correlation.

        He flushed again. I waited. And then I heard the magical sounds of keys jingling against coins as a zipper closed.

        I listened to the foot steps until they disappeared in a hallway abyss that hopefully swallowed him up. And then, quiet until now, I heard rustling coming from the other occupied stall.

        Who was this guy? Why didn't he go before this? Was he waiting for his turn or something, as though we're all standing in line at a fair for a ride that only seats one?

        I was tired. I was tired of having to leave my RV for the audible safety of the public restroom. I was tired of it being locked and then forced to come to the truck-stop. I was tired of being in such close proximity to someone else in the stalls. And then, after the sanctuary of his departure, I was tired of this new guy adding to what was quickly becoming the longest shit of my life.

        So I closed my eyes, put my fears aside, and went for it. To hell with any sounds. To my great surprise, I didn't feel vulnerable. In fact, I felt empowered. No one was controlling when I could go. I made a concrete decision and disregarded anyone else's view on my conclusion.

        Then, in a mere ten seconds, it was over.

        That was it. All of that work and preparation and it only lasted ten seconds. My moment of power quickly succumbed to feeling controlled again. Not to the sounds, but to the demands of my stomach and its final decisions on how to proceed. All of that emotional build-up and it let me down. There was no dramatic conclusion to it, no exclamation point! It only completed its objective function, as it saw needed. And suddenly I was tired of my intestines being so sporadic in their workload. Why can't they work a normal 9-5? What is with this part-time, on again-off again schedule?

        I finished up in the stall, flushed, and walked out. I cut through the restaurant doors and walked back to the RV, which is where I sit right now. I feel slightly used by all of this. I feel like my expectations have been raised, only to be let down by the verdict. But who cares about all of that. More than anything else, I'm finally able to lay down for a peaceful night of sleep.