The Emergency

I don’t know how I keep getting myself into these things.

It seems like every-time I go on a trip somewhere, disaster seems to follow.

Remember Alaska? Point made.
Well, my beautiful wife and I embarked on a once-in-a-lifetime trip to Italy this past weekend to celebrate our 36th Anniversary. First, we had a brief 4-day layover in our favorite city of all time, New York.

Normally, we have no trouble navigating around Manhattan. We always ride the subway and there are plenty of apps you can get on your phone that tell you where to go.

The one my lovely bride decided to download apparently had some issues.

On Sunday morning, we asked it to show us the best route to get from our hotel near Times Square to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

The app told us to get the ‘red’ train and stay on it for 17 stations. I thought that was a little odd since the Met was on the east side of Central Park and this subway line didn’t seem to be going anywhere close to it.
But my wife insisted that was right, so we got on and away we went.

Something similar to this happened the last time we were in NYC. We got on a south bound train looking for Chinatown and missed our stop. About thirty minutes latter, the driver of the train announced that we were at the end of the line and had to get off.

I had no idea where we were but there we a couple of burned-out cars on the street next to the subway platform and several skinhead looking dudes with tattoos on their faces that didn’t seem to be from the local Welcome Wagon.

So, we jumped back on the train. Kept our eyes on the floor and skedaddled back to the city.
Today’s train ride was similar.
We we finally got to our stop, we were at the very tip of Manhattan. Way north of Harlem in a section of the city I had never even heard of before.

We looked around and my wife said, “Hmm… this ain’t right.”
I concurred. Time to get back on the subway, head south and try again.

And then it hit me.

I had to go.

Ever since I had my bowel blockage several months ago, my doctor has been concerned that I may have something called Lazy Bowel Syndrome.

Apparently, my large intestines are a bunch of slackers and instead of doing their job, they goof off a lot and that’s when I wind up in the hospital.

To combat this, my doc gave me a pill to take every morning. It takes my Lazy Bowel and turns them into Ambitious Bowels.

Actually, Ambitious Bowels Who Gives No or Very Little Notice of Their Arrival.

In other words, after I take this pill, there is no more gradual sense of, ‘oh, I say old chap, but I think I may have to visit the loo before we met off to the polo game later.’

Oh, no. A couple hours after taking that pill, it’s more like ‘Okay, stand back folks! And if you have small children, please hide their eyes because if I don’t find a toilet soon, civilization as we know it will be irreparably changed forever.

We were standing on the platform, waiting for the subway train to come and take us back to the part of Manhattan where if we were murdered, at least they would report our bodies missing.
And that’s when the first ‘warning’ cramp hit.

I’ve been taking this medication long enough to know that when that first twinge in your gut hits you, you better start looking for a restroom- hopefully one that’s private.

And where was I? Probably as far from a public bathroom as that rugby team who crashed in the Andes Mountains and had to eat their own teammates were.
There are no bathrooms at subway stations. There are bathrooms in stores or restaurants.
There are no public bathrooms in New York City.

Now I know why there is so much pee in the street. That’s the only place, short of your own bathroom 168 blocks away, where you’re allowed to pee.

Tourists who visit are issued a doggy bag and, when necessary, they just step into the bushes or a dark corner, and use that.
Or at least that’s what it seems because if you need to go- and trust me, I needed to GO- New York gives a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘you’re shit out of luck.’

I told my wife I had to go and she asked if I could hold it until we got back on the train and back to Midtown.

“Yeah, I guess,” I replied. And then another cramp hit me. We have reached DEFCON 3!
I quickly retracted my answer.
“No, I cannot wait,” I said “I need a bathroom now!”

I looked over the edge of raised platform and saw several businesses lining the street below. They were my only option.
I told my wife I’d be right back and I headed for the exit.

Another cramp hit me as I crossed the street. This one was a warning shot across the bow. I better produce a suitable dump station soon or there would be screaming and terror in the streets.
My pain caused me to forget my shyness and all manners of a polite society.

I burst through the front door of a small shop that sold wigs and beauty products.
The small oriental woman behind the counter smiled at me but her expression quickly changed when I screamed, “I need a bathroom!”
She came from behind the counter waving her arms and rattling off what I can only imagine where curses in Mandarin aimed at me and the next nine generations of my family.

I backed out of the store and tried the vape place next door.

The owner told me that bathrooms were for patrons only. Or at least I think that what he said when he held up his middle finger and spit on the floor at my feet.

Strike two.

I tried the big CVS store down the block. And the Walgreens across the street. Both bathroomless.
I was pretty sure that was a code violation and almost threatened to call Mayor Gulliani, but the cramps shut my mouth and moved my legs.

I was starting to get scared. If I didn’t find a friendly john in the next few minutes, there was no doubt that I would be making an appearance on the front page of the New York Post the next day.

Before I went to that extreme, I decided to try one more place. The Mexican restaurant on the corner.

Certainly they had a bathroom. They sell Mexican food which is a natural laxative.

I slipped through the front door and noticed that the place was nearly deserted save for a couple of haggard old tourists sipping glasses of tequila at the bar.
I scanned the room and saw it back there in the shadows. A bathroom.

I decided that the best strategy was to assume it was okay to use it and ask for forgiveness latter. So I scurried across the darkly lit dining room and slipped through the door.

Relief at last.

When I finished and was getting ready to leave, I imagined two old NYC cops standing right outside the door to the bathroom , waiting to put me in handcuffs the moment I stepped out. One would by Irish and named Seamus.

“Aye, lad, we got ya’ on a 1067-b. Violation of the city’s Waste Removal Act, Section D, Part 2. Relieving yourself in a strange toilet. Throw him in the paddy wagon, boys!”

But there wasn’t. Just the same old guys watching golf on tv and drinking tequila.

I slipped out the restaurant and back to the subway station. Soon we were rumbling along back towards midtown.

I hadn’t lost control of my bowels and ruined my good family name. So our trip is going splendidly so far.

We’re heading to Italy tomorrow.
And we’re renting a car.
Uh-oh.