Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader Presents Flush Fiction by Bathroom Readers’ Institute Page A

and rolled down his passenger-side window. Andrew, inwardly groaning, got ready to engage his tormentor, hoping the battle would be only verbal.
    “Excuse me, sir,” said the pickup driver. “Your briefcase is on top of your car.”

The Perfect Camping Trip
    Gail Denham
    V acation time! Wife has finally agreed to try camping, one more time; last year you camped in a field where they rounded up cattle early the next morning.
    This year will be different. You have planned the perfect camping trip. That is, if you can cram everything into the van. What is all this stuff? Wife has brought enough food to last until December.
    As you gather the gear, the stove slips out of your hands. Oops! Someone put it away greasy. No cooking bacon this year, you decide.
    Load after load of tents, lanterns, sleeping bags, cooking pots, shovels, buckets, and water toys are hauled out of their winter hiding places and shoved into the bulging vehicle. Boxes of food and soda follow. At this rate, you won’t have room for the kids. You begin pulling things back out.
    Finally! You’re ready.
    Wife makes the sixteenth trip through the house, unplugging everything. “I heard of a house that burned to the ground because of a faulty plug,” she says when you ask. So what’s to stop that from happening when you’re at home, you want to say, but you think better of it. She might change her mind. After all, she voted to stay at a resort.
    “Come on,” you call, tapping the horn.
    The lake is a four-hour drive away. You’ll have to set up tents in the dark if you don’t hurry. At last you’re off. But not far off.“I forgot coffee,” Wife yells. Brakes screech. The van bumps over the curb as you maneuver a U-turn.
    “Anyone who has to go to the bathroom, go now,” you warn as Wife dashes into the house. Kids are busy fighting over a pillow. No answer. They restrain themselves until you reach the edge of town. “Daddy,” Daughter squeaks. “I have to go—now.”
    Bit by bit, with only minor interruptions, such as stopping at every rest stop and service station, you inch your way toward that paradise lakeside vacation spot. Your foot presses the accelerator as you race the sun.
    You lose.
    Wife and kids sit in the van and eat peanut butter on crackers while you struggle with a zillion tent pegs and rain flys.
    “How about a salami sandwich?” you request. “No salami,” Wife replies.
    “$364 worth of groceries, and no salami,” you mutter.
    Your flashlight flickers weakly. They should make these instructions in large print. The lantern fuel didn’t get packed either.
    “Okay, come on out,” you call finally. “I’m going to build a fire.”
    Suddenly it hits you. You distinctly remember seeing the axe leaning against the garage wall. You do not remember seeing the axe in the van. You are correct.
    Building a fire from twigs takes a long time. The sky begins to leak.
    “Only a little mist,” you assure your family. “Won’t hurt anyone.”
    The family doesn’t agree. In a few minutes, they head for the cozy tent.
    You sit and watch newspaper burn, dreaming of long-ago fishing trips with your dad. You remember how you used to trade stories around a roaring fire. The mist puts out your puny fire and soaks your coat. You give up and crawl into your sleeping bag.
    “Listen to the rain on the tent,” you murmur to Wife. “Remindsme of the time…”
    “Shut up,” growls your sweet wife.
    The rain stops. You begin to relax. It will clear tomorrow. Maybe you can get in a little fishing. A cricket chirps. Frogs take up the chorus. Somewhere, something is munching, munching.
    “Did you cover the food?” you whisper.
    “Last one to bed does that,” Wife mutters.
    “Daddy, I hear something,” Son yowls. “Probably a bear.”
    “I have to go—now,” Daughter whines.
    “Probably a bunch of chipmunks,” you assure them as you creep out of your warm bag. You fumble for your clothes and fall out of the tent. Your foot