THE WIND WILL HAVE ITS WAY WITH YOU
The door weighs as much as a Buick and opens onto a cinderblock room that the state of Wyoming clearly designed for weather rather than people. I came in off a stretch of interstate where the semis lean into the crosswind like drunks against a bar, and I assumed the building would offer shelter. It does not.
The hand dryer has been torn from the wall, leaving four bolt holes and a strip of masking tape on which someone has written "USE PANTS." The latch on the stall door is a coat hanger, bent into a hook with the skill of a man who has done time. The mirror is polished steel, scratched into a fog, so that every traveler appears to himself as a ghost of the frontier.
None of this is the real problem. The problem is the vent near the ceiling, which pulls a forty-mile-an-hour gale straight through the room and sends the toilet paper streaming sideways like a flag at a state funeral. I watched a full roll unspool itself across the floor in under a minute. Nobody came to stop it. Nobody ever will.
Interstate 80 carries a fortune in freight every day, and the tax on all that diesel pays for this. Somewhere in Cheyenne, a transportation official has a budget line for "rest area maintenance," and he should be made to spend one January night here with a coat hanger and his conscience.
SCORE: 2 plungers. The coat hanger, for ingenuity under pressure.