Chronicles of Chaos
Winnemucca
Wyatt mumbles from the back of the car, “Mom, I have to go to the bathroom.”
“You do?” I ask, barely hiding frustration. Half an hour ago Michael and I took everyone to pee at a warehouse-sized Whole Foods in Reno.
“I have to poop NOW!”
We’re on a deserted Nevada highway. Nothing but dirt, semis and wind. A blue rest stop sign miraculously appears on the right. We take the exit.
The rest stop is a deserted cinder block building with mazelike openings and dark shadows. We park in front of the unisex restroom signs. Even in daylight I feel like we’ve stumbled into a horror movie set.
Michael gets out with Wyatt, I take the dog to pee. As I’m coaxing Bernard to “do it”, Michael bursts out of the bathroom door with Wyatt trailing behind him.
“He has to go but he won’t go.”
Wyatt looks at me, “It’s not a toilet.”
We’re yelling to hear over the wind. Amelia and Oliver watch from the car windows. They’ve unstrapped themselves from their seats, which depresses me. We may never get out of Nevada. The dog lunges at a tumbleweed flying across the parking lot. I hand Michael the leash, take Wyatt back to the bathroom. “Let’s try again.”
As soon as the metal door slams closed behind us, I understand Wyatt’s resistance. It’s pretty much a hole in the ground. For a moment I wonder whose job it is to clean and tidy rest stops, how often they come, whether they live nearby and who checks their work.
“Oh, look” I say, “the same kind of potty the construction workers use at the building site.”
Wyatt faces the door. “I don’t have to go anymore.”
“We may not find another bathroom for hours.”
“I’m fine.”
I debate my options. I can’t force him to go to the bathroom. We get in the car and onto the highway. Wyatt doesn’t mention the bathroom again. Whenever I ask he says he’s fine.
Michael reassures me that we’re almost to Winnemucca. Every so often he says, “We’ll stop in Winnemucca,” which is more about saying the word Winnemucca than making anyone feel better.
Suddenly Wyatt shouts, “I have to go RIGHT NOW!!”
There’s unplowed snow on the shoulder, trucks everywhere. No sign of Winnemucca.
I unbuckle my seatbelt. “Amelia, get Oliver’s potty.” Amelia pulls Oliver’s training potty from the luggage stuffed behind her third row seat. I lay down a towel and balance the potty between the boys’ seats.
Wyatt climbs on the potty. Oliver sits inches away, staring at Wyatt as if this is the best thing that’s happened all day. I find a pack of baby wipes. For a moment, we’re saved.
When the excitement’s over, the potty sits in the middle of the car, transformed into a dangerous substance. The five of us instinctively lean away from the smell. We search the horizon for the outskirts of Winnemucca–finally we see a few lonely houses and then the cluster of gas and fast food. The Chevron sign towering on its white pole becomes our beacon of safety.
For some reason we choose not to take the first turn off to Lower Winnemucca. I watch in despair as the gas stations and trucker coffee shops disappear behind us. The smell in the car becomes unbearable.
I scan the town, hoping for another opportunity. There are no more gas stations, just depressing industrial buildings and abandoned pick up trucks covered with snow.
A dingy looking gas station appears on the right, not much of a sign but I can see the pumps.
“This exit, this exit!” I point. Michael turns off on Upper Winnemucca.
As he navigates the snowy offramp, we argue about whether I did in fact see a gas station or we need to double back on the highway to Chevron. Turning around after losing what feels like hours wandering through the disturbingly large Whole Foods this morning and then at the rest stop is too big a defeat.
When we get to the road, Michael sees it too. A rundown Sinclair station.
He stops at the pump. I grab the potty and disappear to the side of the building. As I dump the container in a rusty dumpster and clean it with snow, I’m thankful we’re not at a shiny Chevron. I feel the same relief as I sneak past the tattooed man watching TV at the cash register to soap up the potty in the restroom sink.
We reassemble in our seats, surrounded by food bags, lost crayons and sticker books. The smell is gone. It’s ten thirty and we’ve got at least eight more hours to go. We’re oddly pleased with ourselves, with our ability to adapt.
Later that night when Oliver has to poop on the two lane highway out of Twin Falls, we know just what to do.
Great story. In Europe this last summer we encountered the hole-in-the-ground “toilet.” I have always found it odd that boys, with their deeply adventurous spirit and love for dirt, will not go near a disgusting bathroom. Maybe deep down inside they have a sense for cleanliness after all!