The day was Aug. 25 of 2013. I really had to go. The beating drums of performing Chinese bands pounded into my heart as I entered a dank cesspool - the public restroom at Columbus Park.
I crept stall to stall looking for the lesser evil - keeping my breathes short to avoid inhaling bodily fumes.
My sandal lost its grip and my body started careening toward the ground. Protect your hands, I thought to myself. Don’t touch anything. My right knee banged to the ground - splashing into a puddle. I fell into a first-rate kneeling position - complete with jazz hands.
I’m pretty sure I fouled the ears of old Chinese ladies in the bathroom as I cursed the world, my existence and the bathroom. Pain was shooting up my leg. I washed my hands and exited with grace - despite the limp and a lip curled with a frown.
To prove I was okay - I then walked across the Brooklyn Bridge.
I’ve been reading reviews and apparently everyone says the bathroom is reasonably clean which means I have no idea what I experienced compared to everyone else.