For crying out loud!
With an exasperated sigh and a sweaty palm hitting against my forehead, I blurted out the frantic exclamation as the grim realization hit me — the toilet paper dispenser was completely empty.
There I was, stranded in a stall at the Pennsylvania Turnpike service plaza in Breezewood — its chaotic energy surging all around.
Outside the thin walls, the hum of foot traffic mixed with the rumble of engines, snippets of hurried conversations and the occasional clatter of dishes from the nearby diner.
Why does this kind of thing always seem to happen to me? As though the cosmos itself delights in testing my patience at the most inconvenient times.
Due to the fact there weren’t any other options at my disposal, I hesitantly reached a hand beneath the divider separating the neighboring cubicle from my own to plead with my older sibling to rescue me from a truly squirrelly predicament.
“Psst!” I whispered urgently, striving for an air of casual calm so the patrons at the nearby sinks wouldn’t overhear. “Hey, John, do you have an extra roll of toilet paper over there? My stall is completely bone dry.”
“My name’s Pony Boy,” came a gruff voice from the other side of the partition, making my eyes widen in disbelief. “Can’t say as I do, but this should be enough to get the job done.”
The unexpected reply left me momentarily stunned.
When we both stepped out of our enclosed spaces, I looked up at the leather-clad, burly biker. His broad frame was adorned with an array of intricate tattoos, and his blond ponytail swung with a casual swagger, like a ribbon of rebellion.
My mouth went dry as I stammered, struggling to steady my voice. “Sorry… I thought you were my big brother. He was in that stall right before you.”
You mean the freckle-faced kid? He bolted about 15 minutes ago.
Fifteen minutes ago? I’d been in the restroom longer than I thought.
After thoroughly scrubbing my hands, I dashed for the exit, only to find that our caravan — two Suburbans and a station wagon — had vanished without a trace as a tight lump began to form in my throat, slowly constricting with every heartbeat.
Talk about being left in the dust.
That’s when it hit me — I had been inadvertently stranded at a roadside rest stop, or was it on purpose?
Earlier that morning, this mild-mannered eighth-grader — along with the rest of the church youth group — packed our small convoy with personal belongings, setting off for the Pennsylvania-Delaware Assemblies of God Youth Convention in Hershey over Easter weekend.
Since there were eight boys and eight girls heading to the annual three-day event, the boys — oozing male bravado as they tried to outdo one another — packed into one Suburban; and the girls, abuzz with giddy chatter about make-up, hair, and clothes, claimed the other.
Several hours after merging onto the state toll road just outside of Ellwood City, our growling stomachs led us to the Breezewood service plaza, where we paused our eventful day for a sit-down lunch.
With the six-hour journey more than halfway behind us, there was still plenty of time to check into our motel, grab dinner, and head to the Hershey Sports Arena for the long-awaited opening service to kick off the evening’s festivities at the youth conference.
“Marcus Welby, M.D.,” Dirk Arkwright declared, fixing me with beady eyes as he stood to toss his Big Mac carton and a few soggy fries. “Since you’ve been passing gas since we left the church this morning, you’d better march into that restroom and make a non-refundable deposit. Otherwise, I’m rearranging seats in the Suburban, and you’re not going to like where you end up.”
“If you think that smells bad,” quipped my lifelong roommate, pausing to sip on a vanilla milkshake, “you should’ve gotten a whiff of our bedroom when he barely bathed — only when Mom insisted — after having that cast wrapped around his left leg from corrective surgery last month.”
“Nobody asked for your two cents!” I shouted, my voice rising over the din of crumpling cheeseburger wrappers as we got up to toss them away. “It’s not that I didn’t want to take a bath. I was embarrassed! Mom’s a girl — and I’m not a little kid anymore.”
“Considering that’s the way you feel,” swooned David ‘Huck’ Allen, draping his arm around my shoulder and planting a quick peck on my cheek, “I’ll gladly share my bubble bath with you tonight. We can even crawl into bed together and cuddle ourselves to sleep afterward!”
No way, Jose!
Packing a swift wallop to Huck’s hindquarters, I wiped the sloppy smooch from my cheek and waddled toward the restrooms, my exaggerated antics sending the trio of teenage boys into a fit of laughter.
As I slumped on the curb feeling sorry for myself, glaring at the empty parking spot where our caravan had been, my eyes landed on a lone law enforcement officer climbing back into of his police cruiser.
In my mind, he became a modern-day Lone Ranger, revving his engine, sirens blaring, ready to ride to the rescue and chase down those airheads who’d left me stranded.
I could almost hear him shouting, “Justice is what I seek, Kemosabe!” as we tore down the highway, dust kicking up behind us.
Once the Arkwright’s orange Suburban came back into view, I crossed my arms and put on my best sulking expression.
“It’s about time you space cadets remembered me!” I hollered, though I couldn’t suppress a grin as the crew piled out and showered me with a barrage of manly bear hugs.
Huck, still grinning from his bubble bath joke, gave an exaggerated bow. “Our sincerest apologies, Kemosabe,” he said, earning himself another round of laughter.
“Well, I hope you know I was about to deputize the Lone Ranger over there to track you down,” I jested, pointing toward the state trooper, who was now sipping coffee inside his patrol car.
The group erupted into boisterous laughter, their good-natured jokes and jabs filling the parking lot as we loaded back into the Suburban.
Even though I’d been left hanging for what seemed like an agonizing eternity, it was moments like this that made these trips one for the memory books.