The Idle American: Trekking to El Paso

It has been my policy - whether speaking or writing - to avoid bathroom humor, and I shan’t abandon it now. Bathroom truths, however, sometimes are warranted, but stopping well short of calling a spade a spade.

Perhaps the following account will entertain some readers, but for me - the victim - there was little to laugh about.

B will stand for bathroom, and TP for, well, what the letters have always stood for. These are words heard in mixed company of homes today, except perhaps the one so far out in the country that no one passes going to town.

On successive days recently, I drove the 600-plus miles from the Metroplex to San Angelo to El Paso. I knew that the trees and other foliage would give way to pumpjacks lifting oil with turbines atop tall towers harnessing wind-generated electricity.

My biggest goof occurred near the mid-point. It was particularly hurtful since I had been warned to exit US Highway 67 upon reaching Barnhart. Massive highway repairs loomed ahead, but I forged on, learning a lesson the hard way. Construction toward Big Lake caused traffic tie-ups FIVE times, flag men and women held “slow” and “stop” signs to control traffic flow.

A good hour was lost. Flustered, I wondered why I’d forgotten instructions. Charge it to a bad memory, perhaps terminal senility. Still, the sun was still hanging high when my fuel light glowed. I estimated that I had enough gas to cover about 60 miles, but El Paso was some 65 miles away.

Not too many years ago, I misjudged how far my gasoline would take us, leading to a few marital tiffs. I heard, “I told you so” more than once. Dotage causes one to exercise more care, so I heeded the billboard threatening: “Last chance for gas.”

Stopping at what seemed to be service station/grocery combo, I immediately saw a sign that the B was for customers only. OK, so I’d be a customer, carefully stopping the pump at $13.50, a princely sum for three gallons. Meticulous as I was to honor the sign, I proceeded to the B, only to find it locked. I waited for several minutes, finally learning from the cashier that “someone must have driven

down I-10 with the key.”

Chances, I thought, might be better at the other business establishment, a small cafe next door. It wasn’t scheduled to open until a half-hour later, but the owner let me in. He also had a "for customers only" sign, so I bought a package of gum, and I don’t chew gum.

The B wasn’t even close to being up to snuff. The TP rollers were empty, except for a large colony of spiders. Wasp nests clung to the ancient towel holder, which was defaced by a message scrawled long ago: “Herbert Hoover for President.”

If there hadn’t been paper peeling from the wall, the B would have been paperless.

It was dimly lit by a single light bulb, but I noticed an almost-full liquid soap dispenser. I applied the soap liberally, creating quite a foam. Turning the knob for hot water, I was disappointed when nothing came out. It was more exasperating when the cold water faucet failed, too. That someone had played tic-tac-toe in dust accumulated in the lavatory should have been warning enough.

What to do? Hands dripping with soap, I trekked back to the adjoining store. I purchased a roll of Bounty ($3) and a bottle of water ($2). Counting the $1 gum purchase and $13.50 for gas, I had spent almost $20. I was tempted to deface the “Come Back Soon” sign when I left town.

Before you ask if I made it to El Paso with so little gas, the answer is yes. There was even a teacup of gas to spare, and the “Welcome to El Paso” sign warmed both heart and soul.

Upon returning to the Metroplex, I learned that the spare tire thought to be wheelhouse-stored, well, lacked a wheel. Maybe the 1962 hit song, “Call Me Irresponsible,” was written for me.

Dr. Newbury, retired educator, lives in the Metroplex. His website, with archived digital and verbal columns, is www.speakerdoc.com. Phone: 817-447-3872. Email: newbury@speakerdoc.com.