Country Crossroads

Just before I was served a nice southern breakfast in a southeast Virginia town I saw something of interest that captured my interest for the next several minutes. It was about an hour and a half after sunup and a bus from the nearest town had just dropped off a passenger that was one of the most beautiful African–American girls I had ever seen. She was standing in the large driveway that served the restaurant where I had the occasion to dine that morning so I got a close up view of her.
And, from her intense watching of the road that crossed the main thoroughfare I assumed that she was waiting for a ride, probably to her home. She had probably worked the midnight shift at one of the mills in town and had just gotten off. I also took her style of dress into consideration when I made this observation. She was wearing slightly tight and slightly faded blue jeans and a light blue chambray shirt. In the style of the day the jeans were closed with a side zipper and had patch pockets and the legs were rolled up to mid–calf. It was 1959 and in those days no lady wore such clothing outside the home unless they were going on a picnic or some similar outing.
It was a Thursday morning so an outing was out of the question. I often did this sort of conjecture and I was proud of the fact that I had come to a reasonable conclusion about this very attractive lady. Before I finished my first cup of coffee I also noticed that this lady could not stand still. Due to the fact that it was 1959 black people could not use white people’s restrooms.
Unless, separate restrooms were provided black people had no facilities in those days. The business establishments in small towns simply could not afford duplicate facilities. I quickly deduced that she was in desperate need of a ladies room but there was not one available. Neither the one in the restaurant nor the filling station across the intersection could offer her relief.
As one who appreciates a female in desperation I intently watched while almost foregoing the lovely breakfast being served. She walked around in a small circle and when she stopped walking she stood with her legs tight against each other and bounced up and down on the balls of her feet. She carried a purse in her left hand and rubbed her thigh with her right hand. She did everything she could to keep from standing still. Occasionally, she would slip her purse over her right hand, which I suspected went into her crotch to hold herself. This lovely young lady needed to go pee and the times and attitudes denied her a place to do so. I was sure that this was her dilemma and I began to feel sorry for her.
Eventually she stood in such a way that her right thigh was crossing her left and her right leg was bent at the knee with her right foot suspended. She stood this way for several minutes and I wondered how long it would last. My eggs and redeye gravy were getting cold but I didn’t give a damn. I wanted to go to her rescue. She was black but she didn’t deserve this.
Then she let her right leg go forward with her foot touching the ground and bent over slightly with both legs crossed as tightly as she could get them. I’ll never forget the tortured look on her face as she was facing the restaurant and the road to the east. While she stood there bent over a bit and legs crossed tightly I noticed a dark wet stain began to appear around her crotch and stream down the top of her right leg. She had her purse tucked under her left arm and her hands were folded over her crotch as if to hide something. That something was the fact that she was peeing her pants. To hell with the ham and eggs this was too good to be true.
She finally straightened up as her position had been one of extreme discomfort and I saw the dark wet stain had encircled her crotch and streamed down her right leg to her knee where it disappeared. She had peed her pants and still there was no one to pick her up. She looked like she wanted to bawl and I couldn’t blame her. But, she kept whatever composure she had left and finally an old beat up station wagon pulled up for her. She gingerly walked over and got in and I wondered what kind of reception she would get with her obviously wet pants.
The station wagon turned around and as it pulled out onto the westbound roadway I noted that the male driver had pulled her over and wrapped his arm around her as if to comfort her. Yeah, I finished my ham and eggs and biscuits and redeye gravy but I’ll never forget that scene. She was one foxy lady and her escort was one helluva gent.
That was how it was in 1959 in the southeastern United States. Things have changed a great deal since then but foxy young ladies still have accidents and I have witnessed a couple more. Stay tuned.
By: Leaker