From the Back Stall, Men’s Room, Newark Int’l Airport, Monday 7:47 PM.
Little Kid: “Ewww. Water’s everywhere.”
Tired Dad: “Ignore it. Remember, don’t touch anything. Nothing.”
LK: “What’s this?”
TD: “WHAT? I JUST SAID… I just said don’t touch anything!”
LK: “It’s wet.”
TD: “NO! I… uh… just stand still. We’ll wash your hands as soon as we get out.”
TD: “WAIT! NO! DON’T… aww, man… don’t touch your face. Please don’t touch your face. Oh God, your mom’s gonna kill me. I’m dead. I’m dead. Wait. No. It’s OK, we’ll just… YOU MUST STOP TOUCHING YOUR FACE.”
LK: “My nose itches.”
TD: (loud sigh)
TD: “You’re getting booster shots tomorrow.”
Sitting on couch, kids off in the woods somewhere.
Front door opens and tiny neighbor girl walks by, heading deeper into the house.
Me: “Can I help you?”
Tiny Neighbor Girl: “No. I’m just going to the bathroom.”
My Wonderful Wife: “I have always wanted to be that house in the neighborhood where all the kids just wander in.”
Me: “Me, too!”
Thank you, tiny Chevron gas station deep in rural Georgia, for giving me my first ever door-optional public bathroom experience.
At least I had my back to the parking lot.
Also, based on the sanitation conditions, I am now considered high risk for Ebola and will be voluntarily surrendering myself to the CDC.