On Six Shooter Coffee

One time, after drinking at Six Shooter Coffee in the Waterloo Arts District of Cleveland, I almost shit my pants. I attribute this solely to their ability at crafting a quality caffeinated beverage that unintentionally (?) sends a piledriver to the digestive system. If anything, their product is too good and should come with a warning label for those of us sensitive to peristaltic events.

There I was, meeting with a graphic designer on branding for a new blog idea.  I had ordered a cappuccino prior to the meeting to go over my notes, which under normal circumstances is innocent enough.  I ordered a second once the designer arrived so I could sip smartly while nodding at his ideas, like a grown up.

Just as we were getting to the business end of the discussion, my coffee was getting to the business end of my lower intestines. We still had a few colors to decide on as well as narrow the design down to a few directions.  Sensing a change on the internal barometer, I glanced nonchalantly towards the restroom.  There's only one at Six Shooter Coffee, and it's a single hitter.  Being at the prime coffee fetching hour, at least one person was in line at all times - less than ideal conditions to make anything happen here. Thinking we had 10-15 minutes to go, I estimated that I could conclude this meeting, make the 45-minute drive home, and deal with all of this in the comfort of my own porcelain.

I estimated incorrectly.

About five minutes after settling back into the discussion, I broke out into a sweat.  "Strong coffee here, huh?" I stammered as I wiped my upper lip. We pressed on, and so, too, did the blooming pressure in my lower abdomen. It became so intense that at one point during this professional-ass meeting, I shot up from our table, hoping that straightening out my innards would calm the storm.  And then just stood there.  We exchanged confused looks.  "Sorry...uh, my legs were falling asleep" I gasped as I pointed at one of the designs and asked how he felt about blue. He launched into what I could only assume was color theory, I'm not sure because I was no longer listening.  My entire body was now sweating and shaking slightly.  I couldn't delay my departure another minute.

"Listen, Robert, whatever color scheme you think is fine."
"...But I mean, this is your brand, this should really spea-"
"WHATEVER YOU THINK IS FINE.  I... have to bounce to another meeting so just send me some options, I trust you completely!"

I grabbed my bag and penguin-walked out the door.  The pain was excruciating, but the fresh air seemed to calm things a bit, and after three dragon breaths at the car, hope was restored.  I climbed in and buckled up, I just might be able to make it home yet!

Wrong again.

No sooner had I pulled onto I-90, prepared to spirit home, than did things take a turn.  An invisible, crushing hold was on me, like a toddler squeezing a toothpaste tube, and that cap ain't on there too tightly.  My plans must change to accommodate the new timeline so I took the next exit, expecting to find a gas station or McDonald's, like at any other on/off ramp in this city.  Alas, in my haste I took an exit to an industrial area,  walls of buildings with no public access and lines of blighted others met me and my speeding Honda Element.  It was here I began to panic.  I had already unbuttoned my pants and pushed my seat back, hoping to offer some relief. My shirt was soaked through.

"It was only cappuccino..." I whispered to God.

I slowed the car down to a stop after realizing the empty street only had empty industrial buildings as far as the eye could see.  I texted my husband.

[I might have to shit in the Honda]
[What?]
[I can't find a bathroom and its a super emergency]
[Like no bathrooms anywhere?]
[What do I do]
[How is there not a gas station where are you?]
[Do we have dog doo bags in here]

A seizure of pain wracked my body and I gripped the steering wheel until it passed.  I had mere minutes, I could not hold the gates much longer.  I moved the car forward to find a discrete place to die.

BUT THEN.

On the horizon.  The world's tiniest Subway was attached to an abandoned strip of stores.

Lights on.
Open.

On two wheels, I pulled the Element in. I opened the door and stood up, almost immediately doubling over with pain.  It was here I almost lost the war, how cruel to be so close. Somehow, someway, the contraction ebbed.  I straightened, and slowly made my way inside, giddy with relief.

This Subway did not have restrooms in the seating area.
Any.
At.
All.

It had a drink machine, a small cooler with bottles, a sandwich makin' counter, and a western style door leading to the back of the house. Tears welled in my eyes as a young woman made her way from the back to the counter.  I limped to the cooler and grabbed a Sprite, then limped to the register.

"OnespritepleasemayIuseyourbathroom?"

She looked scared.  I looked ill. Pale, sweaty and resembling someone coming off hard drugs, I threw a wadded and moist $5 bill on the counter.  We both knew I wasn't really asking.

"S-sure - just back there.."

I turned, took a labored breath, and began the extremely slow walk to the broom closet/employee bathroom where I would be baptized by fire, for it was by the divine love of the infant Christ that I did not shit my pants in front of this scared stranger.

And so concludes the second worst bathroom emergency of my life.