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rows back from the front. Just right, I thought to myself.

Little did I know.

The Indian Girls headed for the middle section, one of them sporting a loud cackling laugh. Probably excited about the trip, I thought. Another false assumption on my part.

A fellow wearing a baseball cap took a seat at the front. He would soon be known as the Preacher.

Behind him, Bathroom Boy and his mother settled into their seats.

Behind them sat Rasta Man and his wife.

Cell Phone Lady boarded the bus, looking for a nearby seat as she started making the first of a multitude of calls.

Once we were settled in, the bus crawled out of the Portland area via Interstate 84, gateway to the Gorge. I was starting to feel a little worse, and prayed that sleep would soon come.

After a while, Connor said he had to go pee. Seizing the opportunity to make the trip more fun for him, I told him that there was a bathroom on the bus. He seemed only moderately interested.

I took his hand and led him back to the door.

It was a different world at the back end of the Greyhound. It smelled funny, was a rougher ride than up front, and was bathed in an aura of darkness (probably due to a few burned out lights).

I opened the restroom door and we both squeezed inside.

The first thing I noticed was a lack of handles, wondering how one could successfully accomplish what one set out to do, lavatorially speaking, without a stable handhold.

The next thing I noticed was the seat, a term I use generously. Then I knew why there were no handholds. One look at the bathroom arrangement, and the desire to leave overcame the desire to "evacuate".

The next thing I noticed was that there was no sink. Instead, one cleansed one's hands with a towelette, which one had to wrench from a tightly-packed dispenser. (After assessing the sanitation situation therein, I thought about writing a letter to Greyhound, requesting that they consider placing another towelette dispenser outside the bathroom door).

I stood behind Connor and held him by the shoulders so he wouldn't fall down, with all the bucking the bus was doing. Connor unzipped his pants, assumed the position, took a long look into the murky depths of the sloshing and thrashing waters, and then said, "Daddy, I don't have to go". I implored him to please "go", but the matter was decided. Something he had seen (or smelled), in the deep and troubled waters of the Greyhound toilet tank had unnerved him. All he wanted now was to leave the bathroom, and head back to his seat.

We scrubbed our

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