I worked in an Italian restaurant in Austin, Texas, in the late 1990s. One Sunday, along with two other servers and a manager, I was inside the dining room setting up for the evening. The restaurant did not open until five o’clock that day; around four-thirty, through the windows, we saw a woman run up to the front door and desperately yank on the handle, trying to wrench it open. When she realized it was locked she banged on the windows, screaming something. The manager hastily went to open the door; he thought perhaps she was in danger of some kind. When he opened the door, she attempted to push past him, yelling that she had a major emergency and had to “get the hell in dat bat’room NOW!” The manager tried to explain that the restaurant was not yet open, and that she should come back at five! o’clock. The woman paid no attention to him, and sped off toward the restrooms using a strange, shambling gait. One of the other servers gasped; I took another look and saw that this lady had thick, muddy poo running down the backs of her legs! My response was to laugh uncontrollably until my stomach hurt and I had almost peed myself. The manager didn’t find it quite so hilarious, however; he knew that a problem was brewing in the bathroom, and that he would be the one who would have to attend to it.
The restaurant opened for business at five o’clock, but the woman had not yet come out of the bathroom. A few patrons came in to dine, but we weren’t, as of yet, busy. The manager was keeping a keen eye on the restroom door, waiting for the woman to emerge. I don’t know what he was planning on saying to her (what would he have said anyway? “Hey! How dare you crap in our bathroom!”?), but he never had a chance to say anything. When she finally came out, she made a beeline for the exit, keeping her head down and moving fast. The manager went into the bathroom and let out a little shriek. When I went to look, I saw that there was poo smeared all over the toilet seat, the floor, and the sink. There were poopy handprints on the paper towel dispenser and streaks on the wall. The smell was unbelievable, the more sickening because it was mingled with the aromas of sausage, peppers, and tomato sauce from the kitchen. I am sorry to say that, once again, I lost control and la! ughed until I had the hiccups. The manager, however, looked extremely nonplussed as he filled a mop bucket with water and put on a pair of rubber gloves, preparing to purge the noxious mess. I did not envy him as I returned to the dining room and attended to customers with what little composure I could muster. I later worked in a bar where patrons would poop, and occasionally vomit, in the urinals, but I have never seen anything quite as cataclysmic as the foul cesspool left behind by “Gravylegs.”