Chapter Fourteen
Sam
“We’re here.” Suds kills the old engine.
“Thank God. I have got to pee.” I wait for the Ford to stop shuddering then exit. Then, I jump up and down. Every muscle in my body aches from being cramped up in a car for thirty-three fucking hours.
Stretching, surrounded by nothing but desert, my mouth drops open. I don’t know what I expected when my husband mentioned a cabin, but this unpainted, wood-rotted shack with the roof caved in was not it.
Whatever.I rush up two steps and cringe as the porch wood bends under my feet. “Hurry. Unlock the door. I need to go really bad.”
Not wanting to see the insides of another horrid gas station, I’ve been crossing my legs for almost an hour.
While I wait on an entryway better suited for a gunslinger movie, Suds points to a small building with a half-moon carved over the door.
“Oh no. No fucking way.” I’ve read about outhouses. While charming in novels, the thought of peeing over who-knows-what petrifies me.
I squirm, my voice small. “Give me the keys, I am not-”
“Just pull down your pants, squat, and go.” Grinning like a fool he pulls me to my doom.
“Doesn’t it have a seat?” I picture rattle snakes crawling up the sides and biting my lady lips.
“You don’t want splinters on your pretty butt, do you?” He unlatches the outhouse door with a rusty spring no doubt brought out west on a covered wagon.
Spider webs and a bird’s nest decorate the roof. “No way, Suds.”
So he points to a log. “You could squat but more likely than not, you’ll piss off some critter.”
“Oh my fucking God. Do you promise to pull me out if I fall down the hole?”
When he pushes me forward, the door slams shuts and everything grows dark. “Shit! At least hold the door so I can see.”
Chuckling ensues as a narrow band of light shines on a platform with a stained white porcelain lid. Lifting the cover, I freeze. What if my pee wakes a skunk or a scorpion? I spit as a warning, squat over the hole and pray to God as I write my own obituary.
Here lies Samantha Sutcliff who died from an asp to the ass.
Of course, there’s no toilet paper. “Honey?”
A hand reaches in with a wad of napkins from our last pit stop.
“Thank you.” Outside, after surviving one of the most horrifying moments of my life, like Helen Keller, I put my hands under running water while he pumps.Wah-wah.
“All good?” Suds grins.
“Peachy. All we need now is a shootout at the O.K. Corral.”
“Be careful what you wish for.” Unzipping his fly, he enters the outhouse and mutters something about me being a wimpy city girl.
“Hey, it’s easy for you. You can stand.” When he comes out, I do him a similar favor and push down on the rusty handle so he can wash.
If I was at a museum or something, it’d be pretty cool. However, my husband is expecting us to stay here for a few days and it’s a bit rustic for my taste.
Suffering from Post Spider Stress Syndrome, I walk with him to the porch.
“Watch your step.” He slips an arm around my waist, avoids a rotten board, then places a heart shaped key in the lock.
“Kill it!” Inside, a monster-arachnid drops in front of my face but my bodyguard stays its execution and brushes it gently out the door.
