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The restrooms were so tiny that it was common to see people waiting in line, and sweeping in front of the sink, I blocked the urinal and the stall.

A construction worker walked in and stopped short of bumping into me.

Full-page ads showed smiling mothers and children heading into “Registered” rest rooms, with the tagline: Gas station bathrooms aided mobility.

Americans didn’t have to worry about where to relieve themselves while driving coast-to-coast for the first time.

He was a tall, burly guy, wearing a neon T-shirt, with a tribal tattoo on his arm.

I pulled a mop bucket filled with hot, soapy water into the men’s room and looked around. That guy had said “big-time.” Paper towels dotted the tile floor, a pile of toilet paper sat next to the toilet in the lone stall, the ground was wet around the urinal, and there were tar marks from dirty shoes. As I swept, I cursed the man with the whitish-blonde mustache. The assistant manager said he had complained before.“That’s how I get a general sense of what a place is like,” he said. He was a father who had coached his daughter’s softball team, and whenever he stopped to get coffee, he’d point out something wrong with the gas station: litter in the lot, how the Redbox kiosk blocked the doors. His unwavering “this is how it should be done” view reminded me of my dad, and I eventually regretted cursing him earlier in the summer.That afternoon, I pinned open the men’s room door with the garbage can and swept the trash toward the hallway.I was one of two cashiers standing inside an octagon-shaped counter with four registers.The assistant manager said he’d watch my line while I cleaned, but that was wishful thinking.

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