Granted, I’m not a big traveler, so my scope of experience is not vast, but when you don’t want to touch the front door and a giant bottle of 409 flashes before your eyes, you know you’re in for it.
There were eight men waiting in line at the counter when we walked in the door using an acrobatic combination of hips, elbows and heels of hands. Eight pairs of eyes turned our way and I felt way too clean, cool, Caucasian and female.
We were in a major agricultural area, so I wasn’t expecting men in business suits, but most of these guys, with their sultry stares, tattooed arms and shoulders, low-slung jeans and multiple piercings looked more comfortable with dealing drugs than with harvesting apples and grapes.
We located the public one-size-fits-all bathroom and peered in. There was toilet paper all over the floor around the toilet and flies camped out on the toilet seat itself. Thick sludge puddled around the faucet. I glanced back at Molly, raised my eyebrows and mouthed, “Nice.”
While I did my business, I studied the much-used “Health Center,” conveniently bolted to the wall in front of me, offering “Rough Rider” condoms for a quarter each. I looked down at the paper-strewn floor, batted at a fly and considered sex with the sort of man who would buy a “Rough Rider” condom in a place like this. It is guaranteed his breath would smell like stale Keystone beer and Jack Link’s Teriyaki Pepper Stick. And I guarantee you, despite his concern for your health, he didn’t wash his hands after using the restroom.
No, thank you, however tempting that name might be.
When I came out of the restroom, multiple pairs of male eyes turned my way. They all wondered whether I’d succumbed to the lure of the Health Center and had a new purchase in my purse. Even though I was innocent, I felt sleazy.
I bought a package of teriyaki pepper sticks and went outside to pump my gas.
It was all I could do to touch the pump handle. Who had touched it last? Where had those hands been? Was there a Rough Rider condom in his pocket?
That was the moment I hatched the idea for a Pump Mitt. Next time I’m in Wal-Mart, I’m buying a big oven mitt to keep under my seat. When I go to the gas pump, I’ll whip that baby out and it will serve as a protective shield against dirty-public-restroom-condom-buyers.
Sure, you can use my idea, too.
And, FYI, the horrid bathroom was in Prosser, on Wine Country Road. In its defense, there was the absolute nicest, most pleasant woman working at the counter. Cleaning the bathroom is apparently not in her job description, but she was nice as all get out.
