Anyone from NYC knows that it is a VERY unwelcoming place to those in need of a public restroom. (Don't believe me?
Read this.) However, my story takes the fucking cake.
I was walking back home from dinner with my girlfriend when the stomach distress started. I knew I wouldn't make it back to our apartment in time, even though it was only a few blocks away. She helpfully pointed out to me that there was a Starbucks right across the street. Starbucks is famous for being one of the few places in the city with restrooms that you can actually use if you're not a paying customer.
Unfortunately, when I got to the back of the store, I found six or seven other people who had the same idea -- and they were all a bunch of middle-aged women loaded down with shopping bags and chatting away. I knew that it wasn't going to be the fastest moving line; but even if there were just a couple of people ahead of me, I'm not sure I could have held it in. The mental signal for imminent release had already been given when I walked in the front door, and the countdown to Squirt Town had already begun.
Luckily (or so I thought at the time), I saw that there was another door next to the restroom, propped open by a bucket and mop. It was obviously where Starbucks stored the cleaning supplies, as the walls were lined with shelves. But I could also see -- right there in the middle of the room against the wall, unprotected by a stall or a covering of any sort -- a sparkling white commode. Well, it probably wasn't sparkling; but right at that moment, it was my knight in shining alabaster armor. I quickly kicked the bucket aside and shut the door behind me.
I'm not sure if it was one of those busybody bitches who alerted management or if some eagle-eyed barista had spied me entering the room. Either way, within literally fifteen seconds, someone was knocking loudly at the door and screaming at the top of his lungs, "Sir, you need to get out now. You cannot be in there!"
Of course, at that point, my pants were already around my knees and I was speeding down the fast lane of the Diarrhea Highway.
"Just a second, I'll be right out!"
"Sir! You have to come out right now!!!!"
"Hold on! It's an emergency! I'm sick! I'll be right out!"
Then, BOOM!!! The fucker actually kicked the door open! I'm not sure if he used a key first or what, but he literally kicked the door wide open while I scrambled onto my feet, naked from the waist down, in full view of the gaggle of ladies in the hallway.
Well, the gaggle was giggling mightily, and I was PISSED. But my girlfriend, who was waiting for me out in the cafe, has quite the delicate temperament (if I'm in the car and start yelling and honking at another driver, she's on the brink of tears); so I like to think that if it weren't for her, I would have decked this motherfucker. As it was, I got right into his face and demanded to talk to his manager. I was told the manager wasn't there, but I made sure to call back and get the information.
I ended up sending a letter to Starbucks telling them the situation and hoping to get this asshole fired. Or maybe at least get a goddamn gift card or something. Instead, I just got a letter of apology. Thanks a lot.
Wherever you are, you Starbucks douchebag, I hope that one day soon, a buttload of diarrhea ends up in your polyester workpants.