Why Are You Here?

Why Are You Here?

I woke up in a rest area one morning with an urgent need to visit the little boy’s room. I was a long distance truck driver at the time, so I crawled out of the sleeper compartment, slipped on sandals and a hoodie and trotted to the building. I pushed open the door and went into the first stall.

I sat there contemplating life and all its wonders when I heard footsteps coming from the car side restroom entrance. I’ve done my business in many a public restroom and you hear footsteps all the time, but these were unusual. They were quick and clicky. Like a kid wearing tap shoes.

I kept thinking that the clicky shoes would stop. That the person coming in from the other side would know I was there and choose a stall far away, but they didn’t.

They kept coming.

Then, the person making those unusual foot falls, chose the stall next to mine. I knew, having ducked down to get a quick look under the stalls, that I was the only one in there. Why choose the stall next to mine?

I wanted to shout, "Why are you here?"

Then I saw the shoes. They were high heels. I suddenly realized that the walls were pink! That the tiles on the floor had pink highlights!

As soon as she started doing her business I knew why she chose a stall right next to mine: she thought she might need backup.

I hated to abandon her in what might have been her time of need, but there was no way I could pass toilet paper under the stall without her finding out I was not a lady and that I had heard what she was doing over there.

The reveal would have been ugly.

Years later, when I worked for a trash company, I was in a similar situation, but this time I knew I was in the men’s room. I’d been in that restroom many times before. So, when I heard the clickety click of high heels on the floor I was in a more confident position.

Still, I was shocked when she dropped her purse on the floor and settled herself.

I tried hard to think of a way to tell her she’d made a mistake: one I’d made myself, and that it was okay if she went ahead and just did her business. I mean, she was locked and loaded so she might as well pull the trigger.

I began with, “Um . . .”

Her reaction was dramatic. She shouted, “Oh my god!” followed by a rustle of poly blended fabrics as she reassembled herself. I guess my voice gave me away.

I was surprised that there wasn’t a lady shaped hole in the door to the men’s room.

Those two incidents might prompt one to ask, “Why are you here?”

These days I work for a lumber company. Yesterday I was driving my ten ton dump bed truck, carrying fifteen tons of lumber, down a curvy, hilly country road. It was paved and there were lines painted on it but there were no shoulders.

I topped a hill and saw a cyclist. One of those wearing a helmet and stretchy clothes. I had to jam on the brakes.

Because it was a curvy, windy road there was a double yellow line down the center which meant, do not pass.

Now, someone in Jetta or an F150 could have popped over for a few seconds and breezed past this cyclist but I couldn’t. I didn’t have that kind of get up and go. I couldn’t see far enough ahead to know the road was clear enough for a big truck.

I was stuck. I had to follow them. For miles.

It was obvious that the cyclist knew there was a large truck behind them but they never looked back. Impressive. Big balls. Then I realized the cyclist was a woman. Okay, no balls, but still impressive.

As a seasoned driver of big rigs, I can tell you that diesel engines run fairly cool, compared to gas engines. If they’re going fast enough the cooling fan doesn’t need to come on.

However, I was following a woman riding a bicycle at about sixteen miles an hour. The engine was getting hot. When we started going up a fairly steep hill the clutch fan kicked in.

If you’ve never experienced the engine fan of a big rig engaging, imagine that a sink hole suddenly appears on the ground behind you and the devil has turned on a vacuum cleaner to suck all the sinners down to hell.

Yeah, it wasn’t that dramatic, but you’re not pedaling ten ounces of aluminum down a curvy, hilly road with nothing but styrofoam and plastic to protect your head.

When the engine fan kicked in her rump came off the seat and that bicycle rocked back and forth as if she was being chased by the devil driving a bicycle eating monster truck.

I was surprised that a wet spot didn't spread across the bottom of those stretchy shorts.

Even though I had been cussing and spitting the entire time I was trapped behind her I felt bad. I knew when my engine fan kicked in she thought I had tromped on the gas pedal, finally fed up with her hubris and determined to mow her down.

But I kept having this fantasy that I could somehow convince this woman to pull over so I could talk to her; so I could ask her, calmly and cooly, why are you here?