Why I'm Single Saturday: Drugs and Public Poopers

I was in my twenties when I dated an older guy that worked for the stock exchange and I was pretty impressed, mostly because I had no idea what that meant.

Turned out he had a part time job too. Dealing cocaine.

But this story isn’t really about coke dealers, it’s about public pooping.

The guy (let's just call him Joe Blow, shall we?) wasn’t a fancy guy, but invited me to a fancy restaurant for a date. Joe seemed to know the manager and everyone that worked there and we got seated right away and then excellent service.

Didn’t occur to me at the time that these people were most likely his best customers.

Between appetizers and entrees, Joe laid out lines of coke right there on the linen tablecloth. I was young and dumb but still pretty sure this was illegal and excused myself to go to the ladies room (I was going to say powder room, but the powder was back at the table).

Nobody else was in there, so I locked myself in a stall and tried to figure out what was happening and whether I would be able to finish my dinner and get home or would have to call my parents and tell them I’d been hauled to the slammer (I probably would have just stayed in jail rather than tell my parents).

So I was sitting on the toilet pondering every possible scenario and feeling totally paranoid when someone else came in.

She took the stall next to me, in an otherwise large, empty restroom. Who does that? Isn’t there a rule? 

Now, as they say, I had to piss or get off the pot – I didn’t want this stranger to think I was taking a dump or giving birth or snorting coke or something in there.

Then the grunting started. Loud, trying to poop grunting with some wheezing thrown in for good measure.

Then I saw the shoes. Big clunky man shoes.

Oh, man, one of us was taking a dump and one of us was in the wrong restroom. Had I freaked out over the coke and locked myself in the men’s room without noticing? Now I had to choose the lesser of two evils, and my choice was to hightail it back to my dinner.

I raced from the stall to the sinks and noticed there were no urinals. Good sign. 

Grunt…Grunt…Wheeze. Also there were tampon machines. Whew. 

I washed my hands and…FLOOSH!!!!

The stall door opened. The crapper saw me in the mirror and started yelling that I was in the wrong room.

He stomped his big embarrassed ass toward the door without even washing, and swung it wide open to find his entire dinner party standing there waiting for him.

Waiting and laughing.

When I returned to the table there were no signs of drugs. But man, was that waiter happy when he served my steak. Talked a lot too.