Bathroom Bobby and the Kingman KFC

For the most part, my trips to Las Vegas are pretty uneventful. It’s a long, boring drive that I can almost do with my eyes closed; which explains why I have the time to create dramatic readings for my site from profoundly silly literature. Like this one. The level of crazy I am driven to on these trips is evident in the tone and timbre of my voice in those recordings. I do this trip twice a year. I’m used to it, boring as it is. 

When I tell people it’s a business trip to Vegas, many give a nod and/or a nudge and say something like, “Business, eh? Riiiiiight. Vegas for business.” 

Yep. Twice a year, the clothing industry (the one I currently work in) holds a massive group of trade shows there and I am required to go as part of my company. It’s anything but glamorous, despite the locale. I am in meetings from 8am to 1pm and then on the show floor from 1pm until 6pm, and then many times I go to dinner, then go back to work on presentations and spreadsheets until I crash at around 10. No time nor energy for clubs or shows or even gambling. It’s why Vegas is forever ruined as a vacation destination for me despite visuals like this:

It's like Megamind and the T-1000 had a fashion-forward child.

Or this:

Because even furry-legged, light-up-shoe-wearing, nearly-topless girls need their pizza and Diet Coke.

The interesting part of this trip was in a KFC bathroom. An experience I will never forget, no matter how much I would like to.

It’s not unusual for me to stop in Kingman for dinner on my trip up to Sin City. As a matter of fact, I stop there more often than not just because it’s usually close to dinner time when I blow through. It’s simple timing for the most part. 

Having imbibed the bulk of a 44oz Dr Pepper Polar Pop plus a can of Monster energy drink, my bladder was beyond full. So full that all someone would have to do is accidentally bump into me as I made a break for the bathroom, and the need to reach the bathroom would have been negated as I would have burst like the world’s largest toddler on his first day in real underwear. As such, I pulled into the parking lot of the Kingman KFC and knock-knee pinch-walked my way through the red double doors and back toward the men’s room as fast as possible. 

I made it, but with only seconds to spare. The men’s room was dirty. Toilet paper in various states of use were strewn about the floor and nearly everything looked . . . wet. The toilet appeared to have been cleaned on a quarterly basis and I was greeted by a mirror with graffiti, telling the reader that a former patron had conjugal relations with another patron’s mother in this single toilet/single sink bathroom. I have no reason to doubt that the tale on the mirror was a true one. The room couldn’t have measured more than 5 feet by 6 feet, leaving little room for much more than what was already in it.

I turned to lock the door and was faced with yet another sign. This one was handwritten on a recently moist piece of paper and written by a staff member. In bold letters it admonished, “DO NOT LOCK THE DOOR! IT WILL NOT UNLOCK AND YOU WILL BE STUCK IN HERE!” Having no desire to live out the rest of my days in a Kingman KFC water closet, I left the lock undone.

Needing to ease the immense pressure on my bladder but well aware that sitting down on the provided seat may give birth to a new catchphrase: “What happens in a Kingman bathroom, stays with you forever,” I chose to use my God-given right as a man, and remained standing as I relieved myself. No sooner did I start my business when the handle on the door started turning. 

I assumed whoever was attempting to use the bathroom would open the door a bit, see me in there shaking the dew from my lily and close the door out of embarrassment. He did not do that. He only paused for a second before opening the door all the way, coming into the tiny bathroom with me, and closing the door. 

I froze. My entire body tensed as this man stood two feet behind me. What the hell was he doing? This is against every single tenet of the Man Code! You stay as far apart as possible when someone else is draining his pipes. It’s a Man Code Felony to do otherwise! 

I didn’t dare glance back for fear that my worst assumptions would be confirmed and that he’d be standing behind me, trousers around his ankles, with a grin revealing all three of his teeth.  With a snicker, he’d lock the permanently locked door, and then it’d be all over. Twelve hours later, the police and fire department would resort to using the Jaws of Life to pry the door open and find my battered and used remains.

Desperate to vacate the den of filth and fear that the tiny room had become, I finished my turn at the toilet early and eschewed the sink (hygiene be damned) before bolting from the bathroom door and making a beeline for my car. I’ve never been more thankful for a key-less push-button start on my car. I punched the button and was out of the parking lot, back on the road, and away from Bathroom Bobby in a matter of seconds.

That may be my last time stopping at the Kingman KFC. Or . . . Maybe I’ll just hit the drive-thru next time.