My register faces the restroom hallway, so I see everything that happens in that corner of the store. Interstate exit, truck stop, tour buses all summer — I’ve watched grown adults nearly come to blows over a toilet. I don’t get involved. The moment you step out from behind the counter, you’re just one more person for angry strangers to yell at.
That afternoon had already been a mess — families heading to the lake, truckers off the interstate, a line for the women’s room stretching halfway down the chip aisle. Then a tour bus pulled in and dumped forty more people into the store at once.
That’s when Lana walked in. Hair falling out of her bun, spit-up staining her sweatshirt, keys still in her fist, a baby no older than four months screaming into her chest — that hoarse, exhausted scream babies make after they’ve already been at it a long while.
She saw the restroom line and closed her eyes for a second. Then she walked straight to the woman standing first at the family restroom door — one of the bus passengers. “Excuse me — could I please change him first? His diaper leaked through his clothes.”
The woman glanced at the baby, then the door. “I’ve been waiting a while. Get in line.”
“That’s the only restroom with a changing table.”
“And?”
Lana pointed at the sign beside the door — one that’s been there longer than I’ve worked here. FAMILIES WITH SMALL CHILDREN HAVE PRIORITY.
