Part 33 (1/2)
”I have to go.”
I sat up.
”Go? Go where?”
”You know. The loo.”
”Loo?”
”I have to go to the restroom!” Keelie hissed.
”Now?”
”No. Next week. Of course, now!”
”Well, go then. There's a line of kybos a mile wide just down over yonder hill.”
Silence again.
”Kybos? What are kybos?”
Dixie snorted. I shook my head.
”A kybo is a Porta-Potty, a portable toilet.”
”Sick,” Keelie said. ”How do they work?”
Dixie put a hand over her eyes. ”Oh, please. Tell me we're not going to get into a discussion of the chemical toilet.”
”Chemicals? They use chemicals?”
”Can you latch a door and squat?” Dixie asked.
”Of course.”
”Then you're good to go.”
Keelie picked up Manny's flashlight, turned it on, grabbed her hoodie, and shrugged into it.
”You have an umbrella? Here, use mine.” Dixie handed her the telescoping version.
”Uh, thanks. So, just down the hill? A line of toilets.”
I sighed and threw off my covers. Manny would never forgive me if something happened to Keelie between my tent and the Porta-Potties.
”I'll go with you.”
”I don't need a babysitter.” Keelie sniffed.
”All your talk about toilets made me have to go,” I lied. ”You good, Dix?” I asked.
”I went before I left. By the way, who put your tent up?”
”Me. Why?”
”You have set up a tent before.”
”Dozens of times.”
”I feel so much better,” she said.
The wind had picked up and big, fat drops of rain fell sideways, pelting us where the umbrella didn't cover. Lightning lit up the skies and thunder rumbled.
We hoofed it to the row of toilets.
”We'd better hurry. It looks like it's gonna turn into a gulley washer.”
”Um, could you, that is, would you, check out the, uh, facility?” Keelie asked. ”You know. For rodents. Insects. Reptiles.”
Hardly my favorite species.
I sighed. ”Let me see the light,” I said, and she handed me Manny's light. I entered the Porta-Potty and s.h.i.+ned the light around the interior. She squeezed in beside me.
”See?” I said. ”Nothing here.”
”That's where you sit?” she pointed at the seat with the big, black hole in the middle.
”That's where you sit.”
Her face looked like I figured mine did when I watched the contestants on a survival show eat pig intestines and wriggling grubs.
”I'll be just outside,” I said.
”Promise?”
”I promise.” I was just about to make the pinky swear sign when the kybo door slammed shut.
”The wind must really be picking up,” I said. ”We better hurry.” I tried to open the door. It wouldn't budge. I tried again. No luck.
”What's wrong?” Keelie asked.
I shoved on the door. ”I don't know. I think it's jammed.” I pushed again. Harder. Nothing.
The ping, ping, ping of raindrops on corrugated plastic played ”top this!” with the wind that began to whistle through the cracks of the portable potty.
”Try harder!” Keelie said, helping me push against the door. ”The last place I want to be when a cyclone hits is in this smelly death trap.”
”Actually, we don't call wind storms 'cyclones' in Iowa. We call them twisters or tornadoes. We do have cyclones, but they're one of our college teams.”
”We're stuck in a toilet in the middle of a storm, and you're correcting my word choice?”