PISSED AT STARBUCKS

There ought to be a law against people who use a Starbucks bathroom, flush the toilet, turn on the hand blower, and then do not immediately open the door and leave. It’s so tormenting for Starbucks bathroom users who stand outside the bathroom door listening for the flush and hand drier to sound thinking they will be able to get in and relieve themselves. Just the other day I stopped at a favorite Starbucks which is in the center of Chicago. I had a fierce urge to urinate. My seventy three year old bladder was bursting from driving my Uber for too long a stretch. I entered and looked at the single bathroom door and there was no one waiting to go in. Relief. I felt happy but only for a few seconds. Then, I turned the handle of the door and it was locked. “Crap,” I mumbled quietly. I started swaying nervously waiting to hear the toilet flush. It did. Than, the hand blower started blowing. Those are the sure signs that the person inside is ready to exit. Thank goodness, I thought. Relief was a few seconds away. I then heard the blower turn off and I already had my hand on the door handle in anticipation of finally emptying my bursting bladder. But, the door did not open. Another few moments went by and I was swaying, sweating and rocking in anger. An old guy with a bad prostate gland is in peeing hell when he has to hold it in. I have already urinated in my shorts a few times when I could not find a bathroom fast enough. I even carry a jug in my car in case there is a urinating emergency in my travels. I thought I would be okay this time so I did not pull into a secluded spot. That was a big mistake. I knew it was just a little time before I peed in my pants as I stood there. It had been about three long minutes waiting by the door which some of you guys know is hell. My bladder used to be made of steel. I could hold a ton of liquid for many hours with no problem. Usually, all night long. Not anymore. These days I urinate every few hours around the clock. My bladder seems to be made of tissue paper. I am seeing a Urologist who told me to get surgery soon. I'm trying to get mentally prepared to do it but I'm still too chicken. It is not a cancerous prostate but it is what they call BPH which is a prostate gland that is too large and interferes the stream causing frequency urgency. Another moment passed and I couldn’t stand it. I blew up. I started pounding hard on the door with both fists. Not a sound from within. Then, I started kicking the door while still pounding away. Still no one emerges. I started screaming at the person in the john. “Come on, I gotta go bad.” Still, only that closed door. My bladder was at its limit. The urine was just about to burst out. This was very personal now. I believed this anonymous person inside, whoever he or she was, was intentionally trying to torture me. I screamed “get out of there, I’m dying here. I gotta go.” I felt totally victimized and powerless. The door finally opened and this little freckle faced kid with a backward baseball cap on emerged. He looked so innocent and all American but I was infuriated at at the misery he had put me through. He brushed by me. He was about four and a half feet tall and maybe nine years old. He looked up at my six foot, large frame. He walked outside I took a whiz and regained my sanity. Then I saw him in the store. I bravely yelled at him. He was about half my size so I felt I was in no danger. “Young man, did you ever think someone was waiting to get in there pointing back to the bathroom.? You took forever.” He looked up at me shocked and scared by my verbal assault. He mumbled “Sorry Mr.” in a tiny voice. You should learn some manners.” I walked toward the front door glad the ordeal was over with Just as I was pulling open the Starbucks front door this big, strong, heavily muscled and tattooed arm clamped around my shoulder. This guy growled “that’s my son creep” pointing down to the little kid who was holding the guys hand. I stuttered “um ah, I”. The angry man, obviously the kids father, cut me off. He snapped at me “you scared him asshole.” “I had to go very bad and I thought he was done. Bad prostate, you know, I whined.” “I don't care about your prostate now buddy. You have three words to say to my little son Tommy. Repeat them back to him or say goodnight as he cocked his arm back ready to knock me out. Say, I’m sorry Tommy.” I looked down at this little brat who was now smiling widely and looking up at his big papa. I looked again at his serious father before I humiliated myself. No way was I going to get my head knocked off because of this trip to the bathroom just for pride. Besides, I grudgingly respected this guy for standing up for his son. People don't usually stand up these days. I’m sorry Tommy, I gurgled out.” “Okay” little Tommy said. Tough guy daddy looked at me as I opened the door walking away. “Prostate problem, huh?” “Here's my card.” It said Dr. John Scott. Urologist. University of Chicago Hospitals. I read it and only could only laugh “Go figure,” I said to myself and anyone else who would listen to that story.