Rest Stop By P. B. Yeary

We were in a hurry.

Zachary’s double mastectomy was scheduled for eight the next morning.  We were still ten hours away from Miami, not accounting for morning traffic.    We didn’t have time for me to need yet another bathroom break, but I was the one driving. I could feel my pulse in my bladder.  If we didn’t stop somewhere soon we’d be wading the rest of the way.  

We were somewhere between South Georgia and North Florida.  Our location on the TomTom was just a blue line in a sea of dark green.  There were no signs on the few bleak turn offs we passed.  I was in pain when I finally saw the Rest Area exit.

Several cars lined up in front of the atrium. I parked in the back row near an empty black patrol car.  There were no people milling about which was both a comfort and a concern.  I tossed my keys into my purse and woke up Zachary.

He didn’t complain about the stop until the wind hit him.  A January chill had crept in after sunset.   News reports said that it was snowing back in Statesboro.  I searched the trunk for another jacket. He shivered but said he was fine.  So I closed my purse and the GPS in the trunk for safe keeping.

We walked past the dark foggy windows of several silent cars expecting to see at least one person, but the place was quiet. Zachary stopped at the men’s room, flashed me a smile, then he ducked inside.  Despite how he identified, Zach still had his mother’s soft round face and curvy hips.  It made me nervous to think what could happen to him in a men’s room alone - especially out here.  Neither his mother nor my parents knew we were making this trip.   Being nervous made my bladder quiver.  I simply couldn’t wait.

A custodial cart blocked the door to the nearest women’s room.  Inside a man scrubbed the floor with such aggression that I ducked to avoid being seen. I saw another women’s room across the atrium.

Once inside the acrid sting of ammonia assaulted my senses.   I jumped backwards out of the room.   As my head cleared, I considered peeing in the nearby bushes, but an icy breeze changed my mind.   I sucked in a deep breath and charged in again. 

Vapors stabbed at my eyes all the way to the nearest stall.  I didn’t even look behind me, just turned around and let it flow.  I sighed with relief then immediately regretted it.  The ammonia bullied out the oxygen.  My nose and throat burned.  I coughed trying to find safe air to breathe in.  The toilet paper was warm and moist, so I skipped it. 

As I stood, I rose into an odor more organic in nature - something red-brown, sticky, and terrifying.  The smell hovered like the ghost of some intense pain.  Something horrible had happened here.  The alarm bells in my head did match what I was seeing. The mirrors reflected only white, empty, open stalls.

I panicked and fled into the cold night air.  I burst into the atrium vomiting chemicals from my lungs and sucking down oxygen.  It took me a while to look up at the presence I’d thought was Zachary.

  I still remember how large and white the Cleaning Man’s eyes were against his glossy black skin.  He wore a grimace that showed off his bright white teeth; they were as shiny and perfect as the toilets and sinks in the bathroom.

I hid behind an awkward smile, then apologized for startling him.  His face was a dark mask that I couldn’t read. He tried to move forward, but his cart trapped him in the threshold of the other women’s room door.  

Zachary shocked us both by asking me if I wanted some chips.  I hurried to him.`   While Zach fed coins into the vending machine, I fished around for the keys.  My pockets were empty.   I replayed my steps from earlier: keys, purse…trunk.  A different kind of chill threatened to refilled my bladder. 

The Cleaning Man freed his cart then stood watching us.  Zach joked that he had his work cut out for him: “The men’s room looks like a crime scene.”  

The Cleaning Man’s eyes grew wider; his grimace strained into a smile.  He nodded his head vigorously and pushed his cart to the custodial closet across from us.  I fled to my car.  Zachary continued counting coins, oblivious. 

The rear driver’s door was the first one I tried.  Locked.  I’d locked the driver’s and passenger doors myself, but I tried them anyway.   Double locked.  The rear passenger door was my only hope.   I prayed, then pulled the handle.  

Zachary ambled back whipping a sneeze from his nose; his huge Hot Topic pants pockets were full of snacks. Behind him the Cleaning Man was wiping down the vending machine.   

Zach watched me dive into the back seat; swim out of the driver’s side head first; then throw myself at the now open trunk to pull out my purse. When he saw the keys emerge from my bag he swayed as though he’d been shot. 

“Just get in!” 

  He stared at me as I pulled out of the lot and aimed us towards the exit.   I glanced at the atrium; the Cleaning Man was gone.

“Sorry,” I said once we were in motion. 

“One hick-up to make the trip memorable,” He said.

“This whole place is so fucking quiet!” I shouted.  I studied the black misty windows of the cars and trucks we passed on the way towards the exit.  “Was there anyone in the men’s room?” I asked Zach.

“No,” He said “Just grime and shit all over the walls.”

“Women’s room was empty too,” I said.

“Then where did all these cars come from?”

END