Rest Area Bathrooms Should Be Classified as Crime Scenes...

There are places all over America where the law feels… optional. Back alleys, internet comment sections, and rest area bathrooms. Mostly rest area bathrooms.

Officially, these facilities exist to provide relief, hydration, and a brief pause from the long, ribboned highways that bind the states together. Unofficially, they operate as liminal spaces… zones where time bends, standards evaporate, and any sense of personal safety is replaced by a quiet understanding that you should complete your business quickly and without curiosity.

I have never discovered a dead body in a rest area bathroom, but I would not be surprised if I did. That realization alone should concern federal authorities and give you pause next time you feel the need to enter one.

A Place Where Hope Goes to Rest

Rest area bathrooms are not like other bathrooms. They are not private. They are not public. They exist somewhere in between… owned by everyone and maintained by no one.

The moment you enter, the lighting greets you with a flicker that suggests either a failing ballast, Morse code, or the start of a horror film. The echo of your footsteps travels farther than expected, bouncing off tile that has not seen a mop since the Carter administration.

The aromas arrive next… They have no single discernible source. It is not fresh, nor is it fully rotten. It simply exists… a permanent atmospheric condition, like death and taxes. None of it is enjoyable, but it is inevitable nonetheless. This is your first warning.

The Stalls Tell a Story

Each stall door is a historical document, just waiting to be examined and scrutinized. And lucky you! There is plenty of time while you are searching for your anxiety medication and trying not to rub against anything. Scratches, gouges, and mysterious stains form a timeline of human decisions that should not have been made in transit. The locks are either broken entirely or function with the kind of resistance usually reserved for escape rooms.

You close the door carefully, testing the latch with the delicacy of a bomb technician. Then you look down. The toilet seat appears to be coated with a material that would require at least Level 4 containment protocols. The phrase “do not sit directly” echoes in your mind, though no sign has been posted. Experience has taught you this rule. You hover… You straddle… You are the first human Origami.

The Paper Towel Extinction Event

Once finished, you approach the sinks with cautious optimism. We said optimism… The soap dispenser offers a choice: empty, broken, or emitting an unknown, viscous substance that may or may not be soapy. You accept your fate and wash anyway because hope springs eternal at a crime scene!

Then you reach for the paper towels. There are none. There have never been any. Archaeological evidence suggests the last rest area paper towel was dispensed sometime in 1988, shortly after a Bon Jovi concert and before the invention of the internet. Since then, travelers have been expected to air-dry their hands using devices that sound like jet engines but move as much air as a tired sigh.

You wave your hands under the dryer. Nothing happens. You wave again and then realize it’s equipped with a “Button”. Oh yes… What can only be described as a prison-cell panic button with the word “PUSH” embossed on it.

A siren-like noise erupts, accomplishing little beyond alerting nearby wildlife and the individual grunting in the adjacent stall. Eventually, you give up and dry your hands on your pants, accepting that whatever you picked up in this building is now part of your biome.

Mirrors That Reflect Nothing

The mirrors deserve special attention. In theory, a mirror should reflect your image or any image, for that matter. In rest area bathrooms, mirrors instead offer a vague suggestion of where you might be standing.

Years of mist, residue, and unidentifiable splatter have rendered them opaque. You stare into the glass and see only a blurred silhouette, as if your reflection has chosen not to participate. It is deeply unsettling, and for a moment, you consider whether you still exist. Then the door creaks somewhere behind you, and the moment passes.

The Phone Numbers: Evidence of Something Worse

No investigation would be complete without addressing the phone numbers.

They are etched into stall doors with remarkable persistence. Some are written in marker. Others are carved with keys, coins, or what appears to be raw determination. They promise companionship, opportunity, and answers. They promise nothing good.

No one knows who writes these numbers. No one knows who calls them. What we do know is that the handwriting is always aggressive, and the ink is always permanent.

These numbers have survived remodels. They have outlasted administrations. They are the closest thing these bathrooms have to a guestbook, and that fact alone should alarm sociologists. The very first remnants of “Social Media” before it was a thing.

Public Safety Is a Suggestion

Rest area bathrooms operate on a trust system that has clearly failed us all.

• Stall gaps wide enough to maintain eye contact with strangers
• Floors that may or may not be wet
• Trash cans well beyond capacity, daring you to come closer.

There are no attendants. No security. Occasionally, a cleaning log taped to the wall lists times and initials that do not correspond to this timeline. You begin to understand that help is not coming, and you’re on your own.

The Psychological Toll

What makes these spaces truly remarkable is their effect on the human psyche. You enter with urgency, but you leave with scars… mental ones. Something about the environment strips away confidence. You avoid eye contact. You walk faster. You breathe shallowly. Every sound feels louder, every movement more suspicious.

You do not linger... You rush. Back in the sunlight, you feel a wave of relief as though you just escaped the bowels of Nosferatu’s castle. You survived. You are free. You vow to never return. Until the next exit.

A Modest Recommendation

This is not a call for panic. No one is suggesting barricades or forensic tape, though neither would be inappropriate.

But perhaps it is time we acknowledge what these facilities have become. Perhaps rest area bathrooms should be officially designated as legal crime scenes, if only to set expectations. Add signage. Provide hazmat gloves. Lower the lighting standards further so no one has false hope. Or, at the very least, stock paper towels or those fanny covers for the toilet seat. It’s not a fix but a gesture…

Final Thoughts

America’s highways are marvels of engineering, stretching coast to coast in ribbons of asphalt ambition. But the small buildings along them tell a different story… one of neglect, endurance, and quiet resolve. We don’t ask much of our rest area bathrooms. We ask only that they not haunt us in our dreams.

So the next time you pull over, steel yourself. Breathe through your mouth. Do not touch anything you don’t absolutely have to. And if you see a phone number carved into the door, do yourself a favor and just keep driving. Because your phone number could be next!