Setting: Golden Valley, MN. Indian restaraunt called Taste of India. Monday evening, approx. 6:35 pm. The night was cold.
I had a delicious pile of chicken curry, a glass of cheap wine and too much Naan for din dins with a friend - for FREE, thanks to gift certificates. I like free. It is currently my favorite price out there. Especially when Naan is involved.
It was an interesting atmosphere, as ethnic restaurants in the suburbs usually are. As we walked in, our nasal passages were greeted by a combination of Indian food and Arm and Hammer carpet powder. There were plastic plants hanging from the ceiling wrapped in white holiday lights. Wow, just like being in India!
About 1/3 of the way through the entree, my stomach started telling me it might be a good idea to use the Mens room, which I did. I excused myself, got in there and locked the door. The bathroom consisted of a sink, 1 wall urinal, and one standard floor mounted toilet, or "Biffy", as my Grandpa used to call them. There were no privacy walls surrounding the Biffy - it was just sitting out there in a wide open space.
I suffer from what I call Public Restroom Door Opener Syndrome. I always get paranoid, even when the door is locked, that someone will walk in on me doing my thing on the throne. If I hear the entryway door knob jiggle from someone trying to get in, that's it - party over, everyone back in, lock up the intestines, better luck next time. When stomach cramps are mixed into the game it's Extreme Public Restroom Door Opener Syndrome. What if I forgot to lock the door and someone walks in on me? What if they come in as I'm walking out and smell my poo? And then get back to their table and point me out whispering "man - that guy probably shouldn't be eating here if you catch my drift!" I waited a minute, could not perform, and went back to the table to put another log on the fire.
A few more trips to the restroom and finally everything was okay. Plates were empty and the table littered with rice. "Check please!" Gift certificate and tip $ slapped down, exit to the Pinto.
Angry stomach continued to be angry. Now I was in a cold car feeling very full, cramped in my trunk, and trying to carry a conversation with a cartoon bubble over my head of the driver's side Pinto seat morphing into a toilet. This was no good. NO GOOD.
I dropped Friend off and stopped off at home to exercise the demons for a while in a real bathroom. Kitty had snuck in there and was trying to be all lovey dovey rubbing his face on my shoe. Sorry buddy, now is not the time.
I felt much better and thought it would be a good idea to pack up my acoustic and do the open mic thing at a nearby bar I frequently visit. I arrived at the bar, was greeted by a few regulars I've come to know, signed up to play, ordered a Newcastle and had a seat. My guitar was by my side. Stomach back to normal. All was right with the world.
GUDDLRRRRP! "Hello, Micycle - this is your stomach. Remember that dinner you ate? It's not done with you yet. I hope you're not doing anything for the next 20 minutes, because for that time, you are going to be my bitch whether you like it or not."
Panic set in. Let me just say if the tidy Indian restroom was not comforting enough for me, I'd have a better chance of executing outside in the parking lot than in the bar's restroom, which has a lingering aroma of seal aquariums and 1 Biffy with a flimsy door and gaps in the privacy wall that everyone can see through (it's a bar - that's how they're supposed to be). And with my luck lately, there'd probably be 1 square of toilet paper left.
I somehow held back and went to a nearby Target to use their restroom. I bought me some chalky Tums and returned to the bar feeling better, but a little unstable. Before I knew it, it was my turn to play and I went up and delivered the goods as best as I could. The audience of 12 went wild with delight.
When you gotta go, you gotta go. Speaking of, I should go right now - I think my stomach is telling me we have some unfinished business to tend to.
