From the Vault: An Apology to a Guy at a Jack in the Box

Note: This is a repost from 2009. 

There are times when an apology is just right and there are times when an apology is just not enough. Sometimes it’s hard to know whether one is called for or not. Maybe one won’t be enough, or maybe one will turn out to be unnecessary. Maybe it wasn’t such a big deal to begin with. But usually, it’s the feeling of not at least trying to right a wrong that plagues us. We want to at least say that we tried.

I have something I want to apologize for. While it’s not serious, it has nonetheless been on my mind for some time, so here’s the story…

I was traveling late one night in mid-2008 when I got a case of “the runs” pretty badly. I had to make do with the nearest restaurant bathroom I could find. You can never get that Pepto-Bismol down quite fast enough! I remember kicking my feet against the floorboard, anxiously breathing, hoping, waiting, nearly praying to make it to my relief soon.

Beads of sweat were starting to form on my head. I looked over to the passenger seat and the back seat for something to “shield” the seat from a possible soon-to-be explosive rear-end calamity of the excremental kind. I ended up grabbing a sun reflector and got ready…just in case.

After several more minutes of driving, I knew there was no more hunting for ideal exits. It was time! I exited the freeway and drove into a strip mall, running on “blind faith” that an option would present itself. It was nearly midnight and everything was closed. The businesses in this shopping center were elegant ladies’ shoes outlets and such. I almost missed it, but finally spotted a driveway around back leading to a Jack in the Box that was about to close in 20 minutes.

Still breathing hard, panting, even singing to myself to hold the ass-full of human compost that was about to break forth from its own dam, I threw the seatbelt off and ran inside. No other customers were inside but me. Three young men were working behind the counter. One mopped, one was handling a drive-thru order, and the other was doing something at the cash register. I don’t know how I remember all that as frantically stressed out as I was, but I did. I even remember nodding at the guy on my big man’s sprint charging towards the bathroom.

I had already made it a point that if someone was in the men’s room, I had no problems using the women’s. This was an EMERGENCY! Luckily, no one was in there. I knocked the door open and then slammed it shut, being careful to remember to lock it with that cheap-ass little sliding latch. I ripped my own clothes off like a violent rapist, jumping up and down to hold my ass-cheeks together, believing at this point that I wasn’t going to make it.

This was so bad! I didn’t even have time to care about the dirty, filthy, partially burnt and chipped toilet seat that clearly had fresh fecal matter and urine on it. I never sit on public toilet seats unless I have my antibacterial cleaner with me, and so you realize that in this situation, that option was non-existent. So what was I to do?

I did what I always do, but am not very good at doing—I “cannoned” up and squatted down, arching my back to make sure that the junk I was about to jettison didn’t get on me. I didn’t so much as get halfway down when: POWWWWWWWWW!

…

The dam burst forth. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Humpty together again.

…

The relief was better than great, but the discomfort of remaining in a terrible squatting position and having to spin an almost spent roll of toilet paper trapped inside those troublesome anti-vandalism devices was a new source of discomfort. There was not much toilet paper left, so I finished the nasty job with the lever-operated paper towel dispenser.

Cleaning up and checking to make sure that my hands were thoroughly washed and that I was “zipped up” was easy enough. It was when I turned around to see the mess…that was when it hit me: I MISSED THE BOWL COMPLETELY!

My undesirable ass-juice that night smelled bad enough to induce a coughing, nauseating death, and it was power-sprayed onto two walls that intersected behind me. Ay-fucking-Carumba! Sheets of shit water in a spotty splatter were everywhere. Good thing only gang graffiti and the names and phone numbers of sexual malcontents written in permanent marker was on those walls. One spot was nearly five feet high. Holy shit, I’m a five-foot shitter! There’s got to be some reward for that!

The golden-brown diarrhea that looked only a little lighter than dirty motor oil touched barely a spot on the toilet seat, but covered completely the pipes and flush handle. It looked like Kibbles 'n Bits with the chunks. It was like the flush handle was wearing a hat that day, a brown hat of undigested bits of a chopped beef sandwich. There was so much of it following the pull of gravity that it was heading towards the drain in the room’s center.

This was worse than bad! There was so much of it! This place saved me from “going” in the weeds or worse, and this is how I repay them? I couldn’t just leave. I couldn’t just clean it up either because there appeared to be no more toilet paper or paper towels. I used what few remained in cleaning me up. It was futile to try anymore. It would take an entire stack of throwaway newspapers to do this fucking job! That left me with just one option, a rather shameful option.

I walked out of the restroom and up to that guy, that guy who was still working at the front cash register. “Uh, hey uh, buddy…your sign in the restroom says to report any unsanitary conditions to management. I’m doing that now. Somebody sure did a number on you!” The man looked perplexed for a minute, and then replied: “That’s odd because nobody’s been in here for 20 minutes before you.” The guy may have been just smart enough to suspect something was up. I said, “Don't know what to tell ya! Anyways, just passing that along. Have a good one!” Then I confidently walked out, cringing under my breath.

The guy was sharp, but he appeared to be tired and wanted to go home. You can just see it in a man’s eye. Walking out, I could see out of the corner of my eye that the fellow was turning around slowly, dreading going in there to see the biohazard. I think he suspected it was me, but he was still stuck with cleaning it up. This made me feel extra bad. That’s why I feel the need to apologize now.

I did what I did and then quickly drove off into the night like a thief…like a shameless, shitting, Imodium AD-needing thief. Now I want to apologize to that guy and to anyone else who had to deal with my...shit. I’m sure just seeing it caused him to curse the day he was born.

Sorry! I really am!

-Joe