It's inevitable that you have to stop to use the bathroom.
So we stop at a gas station.
Lucky us, it's one of those where you have to ask the clerk for the key because the unisex bathroom is not inside the gas station.
By the time my daughter and I got to the gas station door, Bimbette, another customer, had the key in hand and was standing on the sidewalk leading up to the entrance.
Bimbette, key dangling in hand, calls out to pump no. 7: "Darling, do you want to use the bathroom first? Do you want me to pump the gas?"
Darling needs a few moments to register that Bimbette is speaking to him. He's an elderly gentleman, perhaps hard of hearing.
Bimbette repeats the question. "Darling, do you want me to pump the gas, or do you want to use the bathroom?"
Darling mutters something incomprehensible as my daughter and I attempt to refrain from doing the I've really Gotta Pee dance in hopes that someone will make a decision soon. Because, if neither Bimbette nor Darling want to use that key, my daughter and I will take it. I could tackle Bimbette while my fleet-footed daughter grabs the key and makes a run for it.
Darling wanders over slowly and takes the restroom key from Bimbette.
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Darling exits the restroom and looks slightly puzzled by our presence.
I smile brightly and say, "I can take that off your hands," and indicate the restroom key.
Darling says, "Oh. Ok. Just be sure to give it to Bimbette over there, she's waiting to use it."
I say, "Sure," thinking to myself, "No fucking way. Bimbette has caused enough discomfort to my bladder already today." I hand the key to my daughter and she uses the bathroom. My daughter exits and hands the key to me. Bimbette is nowhere in sight. I exit the bathroom and hand the key to my husband who says, "Just give it back to the clerk. Nobody's gonna need that."
"OH no," say I, "Bimbette has been waiting to use the bathroom and she'd have held that key captive until your daughter and I had wet our pants if Darling hadn't taken it from her. She had planned to hold onto it until they were all done pumping gas. So unless you want someone unlocking the door on you mid-stream, I suggest you hold onto it."
My husband looks mystified, attempting to sort through this new information.
"And just return the key to the clerk when you're done," I say, hoping to save another bladder-weary person from the I want to be in charge of the key Bimbette.
I amble back to my vehicle, ignoring Darling and Bimbette, who are ministering to their vehicle as if they haven't a care in the world. My husband soon appears, and still Darling and Bimbette are flossing and shining their vehicle. Guess Bimbette didn't really need to pee all that badly after all.
Meanwhile, I'm thinking to myself, Hey Bimbette, if you've gotta take a piss that badly, then just go - don't be dangling the key in front of the entire parking lot and casually asking your Darling if he'd rather go first, and then take your time about things. OTHER people might like to use that restroom.
And don't think you get to hold onto that key while you wash and wax your car at the pump, either. Because I might have to cut a bitch if that happens.
That, or pee on your tire.
