First, some background on Barbara, my wife's older sister. Barbara has been mentally unstable all her life. She had six kids by five different guys, then went lesbian for a while, and then got breast implants at age thirty-five. She's been addicted to everything from heroin to booze, and has been in and out of rehab and mental institutions all her life.
Now, in late 2006, at age forty-seven, Barbara is living in a dilapidated "mother-in law suite" in the depressed city of Lorain, Ohio, with Ralph, a fifty-year-old recovering alcoholic whom she met at an AA meeting. Ralph was homeless when they met. The rent for this "suite" is two hundred dollars a month, utilities included.
Barbara's suite consists of a bedroom and a kitchen. That's it.
What about a bathroom? Well, a water heater, a shower, and a toilet can be found in a small four-foot by three-foot area next to the kitchen. Most closets are bigger. The toilet is roughly two feet from the stove, and only a shower curtain covers this area -- a shower curtain that doesn't even reach the floor.
Being the Christmas season, and given the fact that my wife hasn't seen Barbara in about a year and a half, we decided to go there for dinner. We made the journey sober as the day we were born -- there is no boozing allowed in Barbara's presence.
Let me say here that my bowels haven't been behaving nicely lately. I just started technical school a month ago, and I have been really stressed out. I haven't been eating, sleeping, or shitting on a regular schedule, so my routine is a mess. Lately it seems that whenever I eat something I get a slight gut-ache and sometimes a sudden urge to take a dump. Now that it's the holiday season, I have really been overdoing it -- going to parties, eating strange stuff, and really blowing it out. Needless to say, I never know when an urgent-must-shit attack will hit. I am so aware of this problem that most of the time I am paranoid that I may need to take a sudden shit, so I try to remain in locations where I have easy access to a comfortable facility to conduct my business.
Upon entering Barbara's "house" for the first time, I was speechless. The place was neat and clean, but about half the size of a small hotel room. Barbara showed us to a couple of card tables and folding chairs set up in the tiny kitchen for "dinner." And that is when I saw it: the toilet, a mere eighteen inches away from the chair I would soon be sitting in for dinner. It was so close I could have used it to rest my glass of pop on. Only an old green vinyl shower curtain was available to create a barrier between the stove and toilet -- and again, it didn't even reach the floor.
As we exchanged mindless Christmas gifts and made small talk, I was half-panicked and just wanting to run out of there screaming. Thank God I didn't chug any beers before arrival, for that would have made it necessary for me to piss. I tried hard to relax, but all I could think about was that I was trapped in this place for the next couple of hours with no safe bathroom facilities.
This added stress made my bowels twist and turn, and I was a wreck. What if, after starting to eat dinner, I needed to blast ass? My wife has never been close to her sister, so this dinner and the whole visit for that matter was awkward as hell for all in attendance. The food was OK, but with each bite I suffered the fear of knowing that what comes in must come out, and could at any moment.
Not to disappoint and leave you an anticlimactic ending, but let me say that over two stress-filled hours later, all was well; and I must report that nobody in the shack ever used that toilet. I had to piss like a racehorse, and my wife finally recognized my high sign and told her sister we were going home.
I have used some nasty, broken-down, dirty facilities in my time, but some amount of decent PRIVACY is top priority -- especially in mixed company.
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