Roadtrip Vignettes, Part 7: Ketchum, ID: The Kid Is Alright

In the coffeeshop that morning I finished my writing and walked to the bathroom to have the kind of quality time that only a flush toilet can provide, the pit toilet at the campground having been let's say uninviting.

I had no sooner closed the door when I heard a knock from the other side. I felt a pretty obvious rise of indignation, and I prepared myself to declaim righteously to the apparently weirdly entitled person on the other side of the door that I had literally just gotten in there, and I really needed to go.

I opened the door and had to scan down to meet my adversary. I saw a little kid standing there.

"Can I make a potty?" he asked.

I hesitated for a second as I reconfigured my mental-emotional state around this new information. He was cute and earnest, and I figured if he was knocking he must really need to go. After a moment's pause I said, "Sure."

It wasn't a great hardship in my life. Even a kid who really needs to go doesn't take very long. When he came out, he glanced over toward where I was standing, made eye contact, and smiled.

Polite, gracious, and not shy: I predict good things for this one.

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