It was the summer of 2005 and I was about to embark upon a month-long trip to Europe. After my parents dropped me off at the airport in Miami, the point of origin for my summer adventures, I had some time to kill before the flight. Naturally, I stopped at the airport bar.
I had a few beers. I pondered the trip on which I was about to embark. I wondered what adventures lay ahead. I people-watched. I enjoyed those beers. I decided that before I would go to the gate I should use the restroom, because no one likes going to the bathroom on an airplane and this was going to be a long flight to London. I gathered my belongings and headed to the head.
As I walked, I noticed a strong odor permeating the air. It got stronger as I approached the bathrooms. I figured it was coming from the men's room, because a smell that foul does not usually come from a female -- at least, not in public. I trudged forward and, upon looking down, noticed brown smears on the ground. I thought to myself that it was fudge or, at worst, dog shit or some other explainable substance.
I reached the ladies room and fear gripped me as I realized that the smell was emanating from the female latrine.
"Fine," I thought to myself. "It will dissipate. I can handle it."
I stepped inside the bathroom and looked to my right, following the brown smear trail with my eyes, noticing that it headed to a stall. There was someone in that first stall against the wall. I looked down again, as my attention was drawn to what was on the ground: crumpled on the floor of the stall were a pair of what I assume were once white pants. Surrounding, covering, and fully entwined in the pile of white fabric was the stinkiest shit I have ever smelled. It looked to be the consistency of oatmeal. Brown, stinky oatmeal.
I hurried to the stall, embarrassed to be there, embarrassed more for whatever poor soul was occupying that stall. I quickly took care of what I needed to do and -- just as I was about to exit the stall, relieved with the knowledge that it would all soon be over -- I heard a toilet flush and a woman say, in a heavy accent, ''I had the diarrhea and couldn't make it in time.''
I froze. When I was able to move again, I realized that the smell was beginning to make me queasy. I gagged. I knew I had to get out of there fast, but now I was faced with another problem: I knew that if I were to leave that stall, I would come face to face with a woman who had shit her pants. What would I do? What could I say?
I braved it. I had no other choice. I opened the stall door. And what I saw haunts me still.
There, standing in front of the sink, was the woman. She was an older woman who, under better circumstances, would probably be a nice, cordial lady. She stood at the sink, fear and shame lining her face, washing pants that had previously been covered in shit. Now, you may ask yourself, what was she wearing if she was washing her pants in the sink? Well, I will tell you, nothing. She was standing there dressed from the waist up, but she wore nothing below the waist except for some shit and some shit-covered Pumas.
I gagged as I washed my hands. There was another girl in the bathroom and we both desperately clawed at the paper towel dispensers for something to dry our hands with, all the while looking at each other uncomfortably. I almost gagged again as I ran out of there.
The shit trail was still outside, a bitter reminder of the horrors within. I got to the gate and then decided to call my friend Brandon because I had to tell *someone* of the nightmare that had just been realized right before my eyes. I stood at the payphone, noticing a man to my right, hung up, and just stood by the gate. I then checked the bottom of my shoe because who knows, I may have stepped in human fecal matter.
I did.
There, on the bottom of my shoe, was human crap.
I cleaned that off in a *different* restroom. (Where I received some curious looks.)
I thought that I had seen the last of the Miami Shit Lady. But just as that thought had been fully processed in my head, I smelled the faint odor of human shit. Panic-struck, I looked around and there, approaching my gate, was the Miami Shit Lady herself. She spoke to her husband -- the man by the payphone.
She was wearing those pants, shit-stained and smelly and wet.
I was certain that I would be sat next to the couple on the plane. I rehearsed and rehearsed what I would say to get out of that situation. The story has a happy ending, though. She did not sit anywhere near me.
