Rest Area Blues

Once every three months I am required to attend a meeting for work in the Anaheim area, about three hours away from my hometown. On my way back today, I was making great time, and had somehow magically avoided the typical nightmarish afternoon Los Angeles traffic. About an hour or so outside of home, I felt the first sensations of needing to use the facilities, however I figured I could just make it the rest of the way home. Unfortunately, a large, unexpected traffic jam stopped me dead in my tracks in a part of the freeway where road congestion is extremely rare. Due to this almost twenty minute delay, I succumbed to what now had become the unique excruciating pain that only a full bladder can cause, and decided to stop at the last rest area before my hometown.

As I entered the men’s bathroom, I witnessed the evidence of past visitors disregard for others as they had chosen not to flush the urinals. The middle urinal had nice, clean water and was my receptacle of choice. I then realized that the urinal I was at was amazingly clean because the last individual had evidently decided to forego the use of the urinal all together and instead had chosen to relieve himself right on the floor resulting in the small puddle of fluid that my feet were firmly planted in (I know, my fault for not paying attention). After finishing using the restroom, I quickly washed my hands in front of the most brilliant of restroom inventions: the shiny piece of metal adorning the wall that is the substitute for a real mirror. I understand that they don’t use glass because several thousand glass mirrors were probably destroyed by unrepentant hooligans, however they might as well not use anything given the worthlessness of the metal plate. Even if these same little dirt bags had not scratched graffiti and gang signs into the “mirror” that was now before me, the clarity and reflective properties of this surface is so poor that the only thing it could be used for would be to verify if you had suffered some type of disfiguring facial injury. Attempting to get any more specific information than this regarding your personal appearance would be an exercise in futility. As I exited the restroom, I immediately went to the grass covered area, and began feverishly wiping my feet on the ground in an attempt to rid myself of the mixture of dirty bathroom floor and urine that had resulted in an odoriferous emanation coming from my person that could only aptly be described as the tell-tale scent of an incontinent derelict.

On the way home I had been almost falling asleep, and despite my disturbing experience in the bathroom that would turn any normal human beings’ stomach away from food or beverage, I found myself wanting something to eat or drink to help keep me awake on the rest of my journey. As I walked up to the vending machines, which were actually on all four sides of the building, I noticed a couple of signs directing me to a bill changer. I figured OK, the machines must not take dollar bills, so you have to get coin change. That was fine with me as I had several one dollar bills. I put a dollar bill in. Rejected. I turned it around. Denied. I flipped it over. Yet again I was turned away. I tried several different dollar bills, and much to my chagrin the machine kept a miserly hold on its sacred coinage. At this point, I began to reminisce about my younger days, and the hours I had spent watching WWF wraslin’. I had decided that the only way to teach this little nuisance a lesson was to emulate my childhood heroes and deliver a devastating flying knee. However, before I had the audacity to commit simple assault on an inanimate object, which would most certainly have caused the multiple bystanders to question my mental stability, out of the corner of my eye, I noted that the vending machines had slots which said “accepts dollar bills”. I then did the “I am too cool for school” nonchalant strut over to the vending machines as if I had not just been contemplating waylaying an unsuspecting change machine.

I walked around to the firs three sides of the building and saw the basic vending machine fare: sodas, candy,chips, ect. I then checked out the last side, and there before me, in all it’s glory, with an ethereal back glow typically reserved for angels, was the almighty Super Duper Deluxe Coffee Maker 3000. This thing had more gadgets and doodads than Batman’s utility belt. You could pick a number of different types of coffee drinks, the strength of your coffee, the amount of milk and the amount of sugar (all with selection levels from 1-3). I chose a café mocha and made my selections on the other optional attributes. However, all it took was one small taste of my brewed beverage of mediocrity to be snapped back to reality. This drink was nothing special at all, and tasted more like regular black coffee than anything else. As I realized that my drink was a complete let down , I looked again at the machine and realized that it’s celestial aura had faded away, and I noticed that the machine had graffiti on the side and cracked plexiglas on the front. I guess when you have high expectations of things you completely overlook blemishes that should be easily noticed. I trudged back to my car disappointed with my coffee and upset about my pee shoes. Next time, I shall just stop and go behind a bush.