A Trip for Nothing – Luis Rosa

June 10, 2026

I was supposed to pick Veronica at the airport in Frankfurt because that’s where she was flying in from Mexico City. My drive from Berlin to Frankfurt had been uneventful enough to call it that way, only I felt an urge to void my bowels about half an hour before arriving at the airport. It got critical as I drove into the parking garage. And the damned thing was I couldn’t find a parking spot—it looked like many people were flying to Frankfurt that day. Maybe they’re all going to Veronica’s book fair, I thought.
I drove around fishing for parking. My plan was to park and rush to a toilet inside the airport, then meet Veronica only after relieving myself. Somebody drove off, but it was way too late when I saw them through the rearview mirror.
My cell buzzed alight on the center console. Text from Veronica.
“I’m picking my bags & will be out soon,” she wrote.
Her use of “&” charmed me for reasons unknown.
Not only did I have a bowel emergency, but I was also gassy and started releasing long slow farts inside the car. They came out steady and prolonged, as opposed to one-shot outbursts, making a subtle “pffff” sound which I associated to a chill Chet Baker on the sax. A person needs a good amount of control over their sphincter not to shit themselves in these situations, and proprioceptive knowledge of its workings.
Though I didn’t mind smelling my own farts, and occasionally took interest in the quality of their stench, I wind down the windows—for I feared Veronica would also smell them. Not because of any unfounded shame for my flatulence, but because of my unwillingness to expose her to unpleasant stimuli after spending about a year apart from her. Veronica and I had been good, drama-free friends with benefits back when she lived in Berlin, and I didn’t want her to substitute the image of a farty middle-aged man for the recollections she may have had of our previous encounters.
I pulled over in the garage lane to text Veronica.
“Okay, I’m looking for a parking spot,” I wrote.
She was online and read my message immediately and started composing her own, as seen by the three dots bubbling at the bottom of our chat thread.
“I’m already out actually, where you at?” was her reply.
I made a new plan. I’d pick her up and find a parking spot after that, then I’d tell her I needed to go to the restroom “real quick.”
“I’m on P1,” I texted.
That’s the parking garage code.
“Oh, I think I’m here too!” she wrote. “I’m by one of the exit doors.”
I thumbs-upped her message and kept my eyes on the exit doors as I circled around.
The farts just kept coming though. They warmed up the area between my buttocks and the car seat. When I caught sight of Veronica in front of one of the exits just a few feet ahead of me, I flashed my lights. She saw me and smiled. I drove slowly toward her, pulled over. Though my windows were open, I was sure someone coming in from the outside would be able to smell my gas—but I exited the vehicle immediately and left my door half-open to give her a hug and help her with the luggage.
“Hey, mister,” she said.
“Hey yourself,” I said.
Veronica smelled of airplane and chewed gum. My stomach rumbled. We chit-chatted—“How was the flight?”, etc. I loaded her big bag in my trunk and her hand-luggage in the back seat.
We got in the car.

•••

“Listen,” I said, “is it okay if I park here somewhere before I drive you? I need to use the restroom real quick.”
“Sure,” said Veronica, “but why don’t you go inside while I drive the car around and search for a parking spot? Because if there isn’t any, I can just pick you up when you come out.”
“It’s a terrific idea.”
I exited the vehicle again. Veronica took the driver’s seat, and I went in searching for a restroom. Upon making a run for it, I damn near shat myself. It is harder to control the sphincter when you’re on the run. But based on my proprioception I judged myself to be safely dry and hoped to God I wasn’t wrong.
I found only one restroom next to the baggage claim area.
One of the stalls didn’t open and had a sign of maintenance sticked to the door.
The other stall was occupied. The occupant farted and shat noisily, not at all like chill Chet Baker on the sax, more like a marching band’s tuba. I stood there and waited for him to finish his business, getting used to the smell of shit and stale urine from the urinals, sharp and pungent. The man made a phone call, the toot-toot very loud, probably on loudspeaker. Another man picked up the call and they spoke a nice-sounding language I didn’t understand—maybe it was Farsi. The guy he talked to must have said some funny things, because the shitting man burst out in laughter.
I thought how ridiculous of me to be so near a toilet but unable to use it! I tiptoed to peek inside the cubicle out of order, saw a big whole on the floor down there instead of a toilet, loose tiles gathered in the corner and a big pipe sticking out of the wall.
As I considered the idea of breaking in and shitting on that very whole on the floor, my urge went away. That pressure and abdominal cramping just weren’t there anymore, and I felt normal again. I walked back to the car.

•••

“Still no girlfriend?” said Veronica.
“Nope, still living the life,” I said.
We giggled.
I had to keep my eyes on the GPS, because I wasn’t very experienced driving Frankfurt, and I didn’t know the way to the hotel. Veronica wanted to smoke a joint and I agreed to it. We wind down the windows a little. When she handed me the joint it was marked with her purple reddish lipstick. I took a puff, two, handed it back to her. She sat with her legs tucked under her and looked very familiar now, telling me about her job as a literary agent and how her life had changed since she moved back to Mexico City, and why she was happier there because the weather is so much better compared to Germany.
The bloating, malaise and pressure on my rectum from before came back full throttle.
Maybe Veronica didn’t notice it, but I started moving my ass around the seat a little—as if doing that would make my need go away. If only another fart would come out! With the windows open and joint still burning, I’d fart right away without any fear, and that would bring me some relief. But now there were no farts for me to release. It was just sheer solid shit that wanted to exit my body.
I broke a sweat and kept listening to whatever it was that Veronica said without really paying attention to it, rather just keeping my focus on the road to accomplish my driving task as well and effectively as I could.
“Man, are you okay?” Veronica said.
“Yeh, why?”
“You’re sweating, your face is red.”
“Is it? Haha. It’s the smoking makes me feel warm.”
In the back of my half-delirious mind, I wondered if we’d still get laid that evening.
When we finally arrived at Veronica’s hotel in downtown Frankfurt, she got checked in and asked me if I’d go up with her, help her with the bags. At this point I wasn’t even sure I had not shat myself a little, wondering maybe I had, and my only thought when promptly agreeing to join her was that she’d have a bathroom in her hotel room.
We waited for a lift in the corridor next to the lobby. The lift bing-bonged and cracked open, a bunch of people came out. Veronica and I got in, she pushed button eight. Besides us there was an Asian couple going up. The lady carried a tiny white poodle, who kept staring at me with cute black eyes, his nostrils vibrating quickly in staccato sniffs. Finally, an urge to fart came to me and I let it out ignoring the consequences. It stank up our whole lift box—a smell of rotten fermented cabbage from hell. I had indeed eaten Sauerkraut earlier. But my hope was the smell wasn’t distinctly human to my companions, and they would at least consider the possibility that it came from the poodle. I avoided Veronica’s eyes.

•••

Veronica used her card to swipe the door open and got in, I followed behind her carrying her big bag, my eyes scanning the room for a bathroom. But before I could do anything, she ran straight to the bathroom herself.
Maybe she also needs to shit, I thought.
“I’ll be out in a minute,” Veronica yelled from there, “I just need to shower real bad.”
I couldn’t believe my bad luck.
As I heard the shower and splashes of water, I pulled my pants down to check whether I had shit in my underwear, and ascertained quite joyfully that I hadn’t. Phew. But then the abdominal cramp attacked again and twisted me down sharp, at which moment I knew I was going to empty my bowels right then, whether I wanted or not. It just wasn’t up to me anymore.
I ran to the bathroom.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I cried upon barging in.
The door banged against the wall, Veronica looked at me with an open-mouthed gasp and furrowed brows. She covered her breasts a little.
“Dude, what the hell?” she said.
As soon as I sat on the toilet all the shit started pouring out of me, interspersed with wet spilling farts, loud and stinky, the ceramic below me getting splattered with brown droplets of shit water.
“Ohhhhh,” I said.
“DUDE, I’M SHOWERING!”
“Ohhh, I’m sorry, ohhh.”
A long solid snake of shit started to make its way out—I could feel it sliding slowly against the whole perimeter of my anus, and watched it coil up on top of the toilet water, until its last pointy end was cut out from the rest that remained in my rectum.
“WE’RE NOT EVEN A COUPLE, MAN!”
She was mad. My chances of getting laid later were now close to zero.
“I’m sorry you had to see this,” I said, “and smell it.”
Suddenly I burst out in laughter myself, realizing that the joint from earlier had made me high, while at the same time thinking perhaps this was all just a dream.
Veronica kept the shower on—it steamed up the whole bathroom.
“Just bear with me, okay?” I said.
“Man, couldn’t you wait? Jesus!”
“I couldn’t. It wanted to come out.”
“Alright, alright, no need to tell me more.”
I flushed the toilet.
“Veronica, I’m gonna have to wipe my ass now. Close your eyes.”
“NO WAY, you close yours, I’m getting out of here.”
“Nonsense, you can stay, finish your shower.”
“I don’t want to! I don’t want to shower while you WIPE YOUR FUCKING ASS!”

•••

I thought I’d feel bad and embarrassed upon exiting the bathroom and meeting Veronica in the bedroom—but I felt rather free and frolic and smiled accordingly.
“Well, I guess I’ll be going then,” I said.
Veronica lay in bed on her phone with a towel wrapped around her head. Her lips were twisted into a subtle lopsided frown and her eyes squinted a little when she gazed up at me.
“I hope one day you forgive me,” I found myself saying.
She made no reply. I exited the hotel room and headed back to my car, ready to drive all the way back to Berlin. Half of the lipstick-stained joint lay still there in my ashtray. I lit it up and smoked the rest, kissing Veronica goodbye forever.