Meatloaf Omelet

It started with a meatloaf omelet.

I was eating a late breakfast with my dad at a diner near Saint Louis University. I had just left my ex-wife and moved out of the house a week earlier. I was taking new medication for depression and anxiety.

I love omelets and especially meat (how the hell was I vegan for 2 years?!).

Huge chunks or savory meatloaf popped out of the omelet accompanied by thick pieces of onion and peppers, cheese, and grease. It was the greatest breakfast concoction I had ever seen!

An hour later I dropped my dad off at his office and headed toward I-64, when suddenly I felt a terrible burn and rumble below. My brow began to sweat. This was not a new feeling. I knew what was needed. Fortunately, I was saved by a convenient mart on the corner of I-64 and South Grand Ave.

I quickly parked the car, scampered through the door, and surveyed the gas station for the restroom. With buttcheeks fully clinched, I walked toward the restroom looking forward to that welcoming feeling of relief.

That feeling of relief grew with confidence.

Then.

I.

Sneezed.

Time seemed to stop.

I knew, all too well, what may happen when you sneeze…or cough.

Everything happened within a fraction of a second.

I screamed the words “DON’T FART” in my mind a thousand times.

I farted. 10 steps from the door.

10 steps from the door.

A warm, runny liquid overtook me.

I was reminded of the dream where I am back in school and naked and mortified. Except, now, in real life, this wasn’t a dream.

With hurried steps, I moved to the restroom door. I grasped the doorknob.

Nothing. What?! This couldn’t be!

Locked???

The signed taped on the door hit me in the face.

SEE CASHIER FOR KEY.

I still hadn’t looked down. I was not unfamiliar with this kind of disaster. Same shit, new location.

My mind was in knots, along with my intestines. I needed that key. Fast. I turned to retrace my steps to the front of the mart, to the cashier, to relief.

This was a new walk of shame for me, khaki shorts with dark brown explosion print and all.

As I approached, my mind darted all over the place. Did she notice? Did she smell my shame? I mumbled something about the key to the restroom and she smiled. Slid the key across the counter, a plastic grin on her face.

I willed her to look away as I cut through the aisles. I wasn’t sure if it was my  mind or reality, but I thought I heard a snicker and a giggle once I was near the door to the restroom.

I unlocked the door and stepped inside to survey the damage.

First thought- HVAC suit and FEMA team now!

I had taken the word “shart” to a new astronomical level!

The cleanup took 13 minutes and at least 36 feet of toilet paper and paper towels. A rancid odor smothered the small enclosure.

Are you wondering what happened to my boxer shorts?

Well, only one option…the restroom trash receptacle (the fourth time I had to leave a pair of boxers behind).

By the way, a week later my parents  had to order a new recliner.