The Throne

Traveling is a pastime beyond compare, though with gas prices as they are, it's becoming less and less possible. In 2001, when I was around eight months pregnant with my son, it was one of the few things we could do with ease, since I had some complications that caused me agony when I attempted to walk. On a trip to fix something on one of the station's towers, Ben had discovered a novelty that quite excited us. He had found Ben Jones's store, nostalgically called Cooter's. Ben had actually met Ben Jones there on his previous trip and I had hopes to shake the star's hand myself.

It was early October when just a few of the trees have started to adorn themselves with their fall colors, and we headed out on our adventure right after church. After an hour and a half, we finally found Cooter's, which surprised me by looking much like any other fruit stand that dotted the highways in the small community where I grew up. My baby desperately needed a stretch, apparently, as he began appparently auditioining for a rock band drummer's position with special emphasis on the base drum pedals played by the feet.

Ben and I meandered slowly among the bushel baskets until my eye found the fresh-squeezed apple cider display. I immediately had an infamous pregnancy craving and Ben bought me a half-gallon jug. I managed to make it back into the car before beginning my voracious consumption; I chugged all but one inch of the half-gallon with only one pause for breath. Wisely, Ben averted his face as he chuckled to himself at my antics. With my hormonal imbalances, it was wise to assume that I would always react negatively since if I was going to laugh with him, I would anyway. In this instance, I, too, found my need for the sweet cider amusing.

The humor ended for me in about 30 minutes, however, when the baby rotated and expressed his displeasure at being squooshed by the inevitable filling of my bladder as the apple cider processed. As he set his foot into my bladder and commenced auditioning for another band, I politely informed Ben of the urgency of my situation: "I have to pee! Now!"

Ben, just as politely, told me that he would pull off at the next place we came to. Unfortunately, the road continued on without a turn in sight. We had come to a strange pass in the mountains that did not veer even marginally from straight for an eerily long distance. Gorgeous trees overhung the barely two-laned road, growing right up to the margin of the road, leaving about four inches of well manicured grass that sloped to a well defined ditch that rose right up to the tree line. I had never seen such a well kept road that appeared like a garden path except for the asphalt and faded yellow lines striping the middle, but my appreciation for the diligence of its maintenance was superceded by the more pressing needs of my body.

As the miles flew by, my need for a toilet was eclipsed by the need itself and I told Ben that I would go in the trees if he would just pull off. This request was how I discovered exactly how manicured and impossible the side of the road was for pulling off. Ben slowed sufficiently to realize that he would not be able to get back out of the ditch if he did try to pull off on the little grass strip.

After another five minutes, I ceased to care whether or not he could actually get the car off the road and told him that he had better stop in the middle of the lane if he did not want a puddle in his seat. My desperation even led me to contemplate the cider jug, but I couldn't manuever my bulk in the small truck for the necessaries.

Ben's face began to get that familiar look he had perfected over the years, the one where he knew that I was being completely unreasonable and was not going to listen to his well thought out logic that I considered merely a cover for his Purtainistic morals. It was my bare behind on the line, and I never understood why he should care if I accidentally mooned strangers if I didn't. I had seen this look more and more often as the pregnancy progressed and my sense of privacy became eclipsed by the lack of privacy inherent in doctor visits and comments from well-meaning strangers.

Just as I was about to open the door and see if I could get out on my own, since I assumed he'd brake when he saw me open the door, the seemingly endless tree line broke into a clearing. Ben pulled a move worthy of the Dukes who had brought us out here to begin with and braked within inches of the marvelous gas station that had appeared. Despite its grimy, broken-down appearance and antiquated pumps, this station still rates as one of the most beautiful sights in my memory.

I waddled as quickly as I could inside where the most stereotypical, country gas station attendant I've ever seen glanced at me with complete indifference while actually blowing a pink gum bubble. Assuming that my giant belly spoke for my urgency, I asked her where the bathroom was, and she langorously popped her bubble, jerked her thumb in the vague direction of the parking lot, and said, "Out by the garage."

Tossing a thank you over my shoulder, I hurried out the door and spotted the even more dilapidated garage across the rough pavement. As I circled the corner, worrying about the state of the bathroom at such a place, I beheld with horror a bright blue port-a-potty leaning against the wobbly walls. A split-second's pause was all allowed for my shock because the baby chose that moment to push just hard enough on my bladder to wet my pants slightly. I opened the door and stepped inside.

I've always wondered how I managed to get so big in pregnancy since I was large to begin with. People often questioned whether I was having twins, which is really only funny to the one doing the asking. My pondering renewed itself as I had to actually stop and think about how to turn around in the confined space to lock the door. Of course, the manuvering was made more difficult by trying to pull my pants down while turning and the significant cant that the floor had.

When I said the port-a-potty was leaning against the wall of the garage, I meant it. The floor and seat were tilted at almost 45 degrees. Normally when I use a port-a-potty, I use my thigh muscles to hold my body above the seat so that the germs that adhere to me from such places are hopefully lessened. That day, as I hurriedly turned around, the angle of the seat and floor combined with my awkward pregnant imbalance to literally knock my legs out from under me as I plopped onto the black seat more fully than I ever had before. Not only was my butt on the toilet seat, my back was forced against the lid, my knees were perfectly bent by the edge of the container, and my toes were just brushing the floor. I'll admit that it took me a minute to register just how gross this all was as the relief of finally emptying my bladder eclipsed all else for what I'm pretty sure was a new record of peeing for me.

There's a cliche about a pregnant woman being stuck on a couch as she tries to swing her body enough to get the necessary leverage to hoist her weight up; this is a cliche for a reason.

When my drastic need had abated, I realized my predicament. Not only was I touching way more of this public and disgusting place than I had ever touched before, I was tilted to such a degree that the normal shifting would not get me forward. My center of gravity was quite firmly placed at the bend where the lid met the seat and without being able to plant my feet, I was well and truly stuck.

Being the reasonable person that I am, I contemplated my alternatives. The first thought that occurred to me was to try to rock the entire port-a-potty until I could shift my center of gravity sufficiently to get my feet on the floor and push up. I began to execute the plan, but it was immediately dismissed as I could hear the slooshing of the unmentionable in the hole beneath me. I looked around the interior for help and spied my salvation. They had installed a sink in this port-a-potty!

I curled my fingers over the edge after stretching to reach it and planted my left hand on the base beside me. With an internal count-down, I pulled for all I was worth and managed to shift forward enough to get my feet under me. When I finally righted myself, my enormous stomach actually hit the door!

Feeling filthy beyond my ability to express in words, I pulled up my pants with difficulty and then turned to the sink, marveling that they had even included a bar of soap. My irritation climbed, however, when I couldn't find the water faucet. What kind of people put in a sink with soap in it and make the water too hard for a stuck pregnant woman to find?

About this time, my brain caught up, as my eyes continued frantically searching for the water. It released the information slowly so as not to further shock my system: this was not a sink, but a urinal; this was not a bar of soap, but a urine cake. The fingers of my right hand were still well curved down inside.

My exit from the port-a-potty was apparently epic. Ben had pulled the truck forward so I wouldn't have to walk far, and his version of the rocking involved when I pulled myself off the seat created a story that many found amusing over the years. He also loved adding the part where I used half a bottle of germ-x on my hands and requested he pull off and use what was left on my behind. He even included the two of us crying together in his version of the tale, highlighting that his tears were from laughing and mine a mixture of horror and anger at his uncontrollable laughter.

Many of our friends found his story hilarious. I suppose I will, too. Some day.