I thought everyone I knew had heard -- at least once -- the harrowing tale of my 1997 layover in Houston, but a close longtime friend claims not to remember it. I am therefore obliged to recount the sordid episode once again. Blame him, not me.
That steamy summer, I was at the George (H.W.) Bush Intercontinental* Airport, changing planes on my way home to San Francisco after a business trip in Whorlando. (If you absolutely must know, I was helping train executives of a popular family-style restaurant chain to deal with media in the event of a disaster at one of their eateries. Don't ever say I didn't contribute to society.) With some time to spare, I made a brief pit stop.
After successfully tending to matters, I was just about to move along when I heard a voice very nearby say something you never want to hear in a restroom: "Oh no." This was followed by the unmistakable sound of an overflowing toilet.
Instinct took over: I snatched my briefcase off the floor and froze on the commode, my legs sticking straight out in front of me like a magic trick. A pool of water appeared under the partition, then a small, lonely turd, which rolled to a stop in the middle of the pretty puddle.
Because I was in the last stall, I found myself between a rock and a hard place -- the hard place being a solid wall and the rock being ... well, you know. Fortunately, the toilet stopped flushing before the situation turned any uglier, and I yanked up my pants and beat a hasty retreat.
This is exactly the sort of thing I would have expected to happen at an airport named for George Bush, I thought disgustedly.
* Most airports are content to call themselves international, but evidently not Houston's.
3 comments:
I don't think I ever heard that tale, thanks for sharing. Which restaurant chain was it?
I never heard that either.
Haha! Great story. I've actually never been in the Houston airport--the name of it scares me too much. You've just confirmed my fears.
Post a Comment