Looking For Love In Gut-Bomb City
In the land of never-ending po’ boys, goopy gumbo and high-octane cocktails, a woman with irritable bowel syndrome searches for a soul mate—and the closest possible toilet.
Illustrations by Anna Haifisch
Have you ever waited in line for the bathroom behind six drag queens, two unicorns, a seahorse princess and an evil monkey on stilts after downing a bowl of spicy hot gumbo? Have you ever tried to remove a fake fur coat, leotard and tights in a tiny dirty bar stall even when you’re not on mushrooms? Have you ever fantasized about installing a flatscreen TV in your bathroom? I have IBS—Irritable Bowel Syndrome—and my home, New Orleans, is not kind to me.
The saddest day of my life occurred at the cheese shop where I worked, when a subcontractor knocked down the wall to our employee bathroom with a large mallet and pulled my beloved toilet up from the floor like a radish in a Super Mario game.
“We need more room for storage,” my boss informed me.
“But, Richard,” I said. “I can’t use the customers’ bathroom.”
“Why can’t you use the customers’ bathroom?”
“Well, I just had Smoothie King, for one thing.”
On certain days, I’ve had to run home to relieve myself where n…