Chapter 2: Bathroom or Deer Hunter?

That day I had been looking for a bathroom for hours. No touristas here, just normal use. (Please, I would not take the time to write out The Adventures of Buckaroo Bowels Across the 8^th Dimension.) There is absolutely nowhere to hit the Head when you aren’t in a restaurant here. I went to the man at the cashier and asked to use the bucket. Surprisingly, he spoke English with an American accent. He happily, though with some hesitation which he quelled by asking his boss, pointed me in the direction of a door on the side of the restaurant.

I walked to the door and tried to push it open. It softly hit something making the doorstop in its tracks, only letting me see that whatever lay beyond, I could not see. I was happy that it was not a human body that the door was nudging, but merely a sack, hopefully full of rice or grain. A child, who seemingly had seen all the movies where a man is in a third world country and trying to enter a side access door when the audience yells out, “Don’t go in there, you idiot!” walks up and in broken English helps me push aside the sack and, after some request, turned on the light.

It was a hallway that opened to the left for 10 feet to a small room with a small table and with red plastic chairs lined around it. This is definitely where they played poker, counted money, had chicken fights, and tortured tourists with their mouth bound shut with a piece of cloth found in the gutter. Following the hallway straight ahead lead to a small stairwell lined with sacks of, presumably, food stuffs that made a sharp upward turn to the left going dark and out of sight immediately. I looked for the bathroom.

“Maybe they meant for me to piss in the corner with the rest of that stuff that is probably making the place smell in that ‘I really could use lunch’ sort of way.”

I glanced back at the boy. He said something, I think, and pointed to the stairs.

“Great…just great.”

So, I slowly walked towards the stairs trying to inconspicuously place a hand on my backpack while having my other hang ‘naturally’ close to my back pocket where my wallet was taking a coffee break. I didn’t want them to see the Fear. If they even sensed the Fear, it would make them act quicker. I had to be confident. I had to be aware of their plans, but act like I just needed to take a piss and I’ll be gone.

I poked my head into the stairwell like the Goonies poked their head into the grill in the fireplace; only Chunk wasn’t there to be a fat obnoxious blunt-end-of-all-the-jokes-Jew.

“Do the Truffle Shuffle or we won’t let you in,” I didn’t bother to think ‘til now.

Surprisingly, a door was only a few feet up and to the left. Whatever waited for me, at least I did not have to deal with the dreadful Palm Sweating Anticipation for much longer. It was behind that door. Whatever they had in for me was behind that door…

The kid must be gone by now, but when I pushed the door open it was pitch black. I looked back. The kid was nearly on my ass, apparently waiting to seal the door, and my fate, behind me.

“Bathroom?” I shivered.

“SomethingorotherIdidn’tunderstandbutwasprobablyaYES,” he said.

“Light? Is there a light?”

Mr. Dockta-Jones-Dokta-Jones poked his little finger at a little set of smoke stained teeth that were switches. A light went on, and nearly as fast I was able to realize the relaxing, home coming, I Am Not Getting Killed Right Now rotting stench of a toilet that reminded me how great it was to be a man.

I couldn’t see it, but that smell is unmistakable. I walked in, glanced at the ancient brown spotted porcelain in an alcove to the right and nudged the door close with my toe. Tongs…I need tongs…

That was the café I decided to walk by for the fifth time to see if I wanted chai or a Bathroom Death Wish. Neither. I will just go to the westernized Barista or the Coffee Day chain.

The pisser at the guest house.

The first class western style shitter on a train.

You can see the tracks!

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