“For fuck’s sake, Tex.”
“I’m just saying. I’ve thought about it. I’ve mentally prepared. I watched a YouTube video about assisting wheelchair users in public restrooms. The video was seventeen minutes long and very thorough. I now know more about accessible bathroom protocols than I ever wanted to know. The video was narrated by a man named Doug who has been in a chair for twelve years. Doug was very informative and also very comfortable discussing things that made me pause the video three times and look at Stormy and say ‘are we sure about this’ and Stormy said ‘yes’ every time without looking up from whatever he was doing.”
“You seriously watched a YouTube video about helping me pee?”
“Sure did. Doug recommends a specific technique for the transfer from the chair to the toilet in a public stall. The technique involves a pivot and a grab bar and a partner standing to the side at forty-five degrees. I practiced the forty-five-degree angle in my bathroom. Stormy walked in while I was standing at forty-five degrees to the toilet with my handspositioned the way Doug demonstrated. Stormy looked at me for a full three seconds and then turned around and walked out without saying one word. To this day he hasn’t mentioned it or asked me what the hell I was doing.”
“I don’t need you to hold my dick, Tex.”
“Are you sure? Because I know how now. I’m qualified. I’ll be careful.”
“I can manage the bathroom on my own. I’ve been doing it for weeks. The catheter’s been out for a while. I can transfer to the toilet, do my business, and transfer back. It takes me a few minutes and I need a grab bar and enough room to position the chair but I do it by myself every day at rehab.”
“You mean the Doug video was unnecessary?”
“Completely unnecessary.”
“Well damn, now I feel like Doug and I bonded for nothing. That’s seventeen minutes of my life I can’t get back. Plus, the three ads I had to sit through. That’s probably twenty-two minutes total invested in your bathroom doings and you’re telling me you can do it by yourself.”
“Yes, I can.”
“Outstanding. I’m thrilled. I’m also slightly disappointed because I was ready, Mickey. I was ready to do whatever needed to be done. I had a whole speech prepared about how it’s not weird and we’re best friends and I’ve seen worse and manhood is not about who holds what. I practiced the speech in the mirror. Stormy walked in during that too. He’s like a ghost. He has a gift for slipping in on me at my most vulnerable.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing. He just stood in the doorway and watched me give a speech to the mirror about holding your dick and then he said ‘I think he can do it himself’ and left. He knew the whole time. He could’ve told me before I watched Doug’s video and practiced the forty-five-degree stance in my own bathroom but he chose not to because apparently letting me prepare for a situation that doesn’t exist is Stormy’s version of entertainment.”
I burst out laughing. “God, I love Stormy.”
For the first time in the truck, I’m really laughing, the kind that makes my stomach hurt and my eyes water. Tex is grinning beside me, pleased with himself the way he always is when he finally gets the big laugh. The truck is doing eighty on I-10 and the pine trees are blurring past. I’m laughing about Stormy walking in on Tex rehearsing a dick-holding speech and the laughter feels so fucking good.
“The gas station’s coming up,” Tex says, pointing at the exit sign. “Stormy gave it four and a half stars. He docked half a star because one reviewer said the hand dryer was ‘aggressive.’ I don’t know what an aggressive hand dryer means but Stormy noted it.”
We take the exit. The gas station is large and clean and the parking lot has an accessible spot right next to the entrance. Tex parks, comes around, gets the wheelchair out in sixteen seconds, and I transfer from the cab to the chair.
“I’ll wait here,” Tex says, leaning against the truck with his arms crossed.
“You don’t need to wait at the truck. You can come inside. Get a coffee or something.”
“No, no. You go ahead. You’ve got bathroom autonomy. I respect it. I’ll be here. Enjoying the autonomy from a distance.”
I wheel toward the entrance. The automatic doors open and the Pilot is standard highway fare. Bright lights, snack aisles, hot dog rollers that have been rolling since dawn. I head toward the back where the restroom sign is.
The accessible stall is at the end and Stormy was right, it’s wide. The grab bars are on both sides and they’re solid. I push the door open, wheel in, and lock it behind me.
The stall is big enough. Not comfortable but functional. I position the chair next to the toilet, lock the brakes, grab the bar with my right hand, and start the transfer.
The restroom door opens. I hear heavy footsteps of boots on tile. I’d know those footsteps in a crowd of a thousand people.
“Don’t say a word,” I call out.
“I’m not saying a word. I’m here for the coffee. The coffee machine is right outside the bathroom. Very convenient. I’m just walking past. This is a coincidence of architecture and bladder timing.”
I hear him walk to the urinal. The sound of a zipper. Then, because Tex cannot physically occupy a space without narrating it, he starts talking.
“This is a clean restroom. Stormy was right. Four and a half stars. The tile is a questionable color choice but themaintenance is above average. The hand dryer does look aggressive. It’s one of those Dyson ones that sounds like a jet engine.”
I’m sitting on the toilet in the accessible stall trying to manage my business while my best friend provides a real-time review of the restroom from the urinal. The absurdity of my life has reached a level that I could not have predicted weeks ago.
