OUTHOUSE STEAKHOUSE
CUE: “BURNING DOWN THE HOUSE” by TALKING HEADS
Costco is a strange place because it forces you to confront the reality of who you really are.
You walk in thinking, “Nobody needs 400 granola bars.”
Then suddenly you’re staring at a three-pack of industrial-strength Pepto Bismol and thinking, “That might not even last me through summer.”
There are certain things at Costco that feel impossible to finish. The 97-pack of protein bars. The vat of mixed nuts. The never-ending assortment of Spindrift flavors that should never have made it past a focus group. Somewhere in my garage right now is a grapefruit-flavored Spindrift that I’m pretty sure my family would rather die than drink.
But the Pepto? The Pepto felt on brand.
Because, unfortunately, I am what the non-medical community refers to as “a constant sharter.”
Honestly, I should probably launch an underwear subscription service specifically for people like me. Fresh underwear delivered monthly to your door. Emergency dark colors only. Now that would’ve been a million-dollar idea.
Back when I lived in New York City, I once workshopped an app called “Sit or Squat,” where users could rate public bathrooms across Manhattan. Cleanliness. Stall privacy. Lock reliability. Toilet paper quality. Hand dryer strength. Places where you could safely survive a category-five digestive emergency.
I didn’t do it.
Another million-dollar idea left on the table.
Which brings me to a few months back and my drive on Highway 118.
I was driving to my son’s 7th-grade flag football game at a school about 40 minutes away when my decisions caught up with me.
Before leaving the house, I had a salad and a coffee.
Now I don’t know about you, but for me, that combination is basically like tossing a grenade directly into my bowels.
About twenty minutes into the drive, it hit me.
Not emotionally.
Physically.
My stomach started playing Rock ’Em Sock ’Em Robots inside my body. I began to rise and lower in the driver’s seat, trying to relieve the pressure. If another driver looked over at me on the freeway, I probably resembled a buoy fighting rough ocean currents.
I knew I wasn’t making it all the way to the game.
At best, I was thirty minutes from disaster.
At worst, one traffic jam.
So I did what any resourceful middle-aged father would do.
I asked my GPS for the nearest CVS.
My thinking was simple. CVS stores are usually near restaurants. Restaurants have bathrooms. Bathrooms have hope.
And there it was.
Across the shopping plaza from the CVS, like a shining beacon from heaven itself…
Outback Steakhouse.
The second I saw it, the pressure intensified. It was like my body had sensed safety and decided to give up fighting completely.
As I slowly drove across the parking lot, I just kept repeating my new mantra, “Don’t poop your pants. Don’t poop your pants. Don’t poop your pants.”
I pulled into the parking spot, going roughly one mile per hour because that was all my body could physically handle.
I stepped out carefully. Locked the car. Took a deep breath.
And entered the Outback Steakhouse.
Immediately, I was greeted by a cheerful host wearing a crisp black button-down shirt and the smile of a man who had clearly never almost shit himself in a mid-sized SUV.
“Table for one?” he asked.
“No,” I said quickly. “I’m meeting somebody.”
Unfortunately for me, it was around 3:30 in the afternoon, and the restaurant was nearly empty. The host turned and casually scanned the room like an FBI agent.
There was exactly one person sitting alone at the bar.
He pointed toward him.
“Him?”
“No,” I said. “But I’ll look around.”
The host informed me there were no other single diners in the restaurant.
I responded, “I’ll be the judge of that.”
And with my butt cheeks clenched tighter than a bank vault, I began slowly wandering the restaurant pretending to search for my imaginary friend.
I peeked into booths.
Looked around corners.
Occasionally nodded thoughtfully like I was piecing together clues in a murder investigation.
Every few seconds, I’d make eye contact with the host, who seemed genuinely hopeful I’d reunite with my fictional companion.
I’d sadly shake my head and continue the search.
Finally, after passing the bar, the kitchen entrance, and several innocent people trying to enjoy a Bloomin’ Onion in peace, I saw it… The men’s room.
I threw open the door…
And folks…
I made it.
Barely.
I will spare you the details out of respect for both you and humanity, but just know I was in there long enough to start imagining the staff forming theories about my life and all the choices that led me to this Chatsworth Outback Steakhouse.
At one point, I became convinced the host was probably telling coworkers, “Guy came in looking for a friend twenty minutes ago. Either he died in there, or he escaped out the bathroom window and is currently fleeing the authorities.”
Eventually, sweaty but victorious, I unlocked the bathroom door and peeked out cautiously like I was escaping a crime scene.
Nobody was watching.
So I ducked low and began sneaking along the row of booths toward the exit. Tip toe, tip toe, tip toe.
At one booth, I accidentally made eye contact with a family mid-Bloomin’ Onion.
They stared at me with the exact expression reserved for people acting deeply suspicious inside casual dining establishments.
All I could think to say was, “Yum.”
Which was a lie, I hate onions.
I continued my low crouch escape until I reached the front corner of the restaurant.
I peeked around.
The host was gone.
Freedom.
I stood up triumphantly and started for the exit when suddenly I made eye contact with him all the way across the restaurant.
He immediately started walking toward me, waving.
Panicking, I yelled, “My friend stood me up!”
And sprinted out the front door.
I jumped into the car, threw it into reverse without looking, and immediately heard…
HONKKKKKKK.
I slammed on the brakes inches before backing into another car.
Two disasters were avoided in one afternoon.
As the Outback host pushed open the restaurant door behind me, I peeled out of the parking lot.
I fled across the plaza straight to CVS, where I purchased enough Pepto Bismol to medically concern the cashier.
Trying to preserve what little dignity I had left, I told her before she could ask, “These aren’t all for me.”
She gave me a look that said, “They are absolutely all for you.”
Somewhere along the way, adulthood quietly became less about chasing dreams and more about surviving salad-and-coffee combinations in unfamiliar neighborhoods.
And honestly?
Some days, surviving is enough.
At 25, I thought adulthood meant becoming sophisticated.
At 45, it mostly means knowing which shopping plazas have the safest emergency bathrooms.