Destiny rarely hovers between urinals, since it is full bladders, and not fate, that brings men together.

Yet my life changed in the men’s room.

It was the spring of 1979. On a Friday, if I remember correctly (and I do, much of those few minutes remain very clear – destiny is like that).

I had to go. I don’t particularly remember having to urinate, but my location leaves no room for doubt.

I likely was taking a quick time out from my job as co-editor of the Mustang Daily newspaper at Cal Poly-San Luis Obispo, a university whose proud alumni include All-Star shortstop Ozzie Smith, NFL coach and commentator John Madden and musical satirist Weird Al Yankovic (who has a connection to that men’s room where my life changed – perhaps it is a room of fate considering how it changed his life as well – but more on that later).

It was a small men’s room as men’s rooms go – two urinals placed uncomfortably close together, just to the left of two sinks, with two stalls opposite the sinks. An odd arrangement as I think about it, since in the hundreds of men’s rooms I’ve been in since then almost always had more stalls than urinals, a mathematical formula likely a result of time management. You can probably figure that out for yourself.

I’m not sure who arrived first on that Friday afternoon, but either way it was seconds apart because in the end Mr. Hayes and I would zip up and wash at roughly the same time.

Mr. Hayes (to this day I still call him that, though he has insisted many times that I call him Jim, which looks just as unnatural in print as it does rolling off my tongue) was my advisot. My mentor. My god. (Not “my god” as in “oh my god,” but really and truly a man that I worshipped at the time).

Even now, 30 years later, I don’t know how old Mr. Hayes is (yes, he remains with us, a blessing), so I’m not sure he was back then. But he seemed ageless. So probably early 50s.

Like most journalism students who took their calling far too seriously, I hinged on Mr. Hayes’ every word. Many times I would hand in a story, typewritten on long sheets of yellow paper, with faith that every word was as good as it could be. It would return dripping in red, a victim of Mr. Hayes’ Jack-the-Ripper editing, his marker a scalpel manipulated with surgical precision. And then it all came clear how truly pathetic I was (one day, as he returned butchered stories to students who had so carefully raised and nurtured them, he grasped mine from the pile with just his thumb and forefinger grasping the tiniest corner as one might handle a soiled diaper – no words were needed).

As I said, Mr. Hayes was, and still is, a god.

An thus, in the spring of my senior year, we met in Room 226 of the Cal Poly Journalism building, where two years prior Weird Al Yankovic lugged his accordion and practiced (and some believe recorded) what would be his first hit, My Bologna (played to the tune of My Sharona, which seems to obvious now).

The year was almost over and although I had enrolled for the summer session to finish up my last few required courses, the talk was about the next step – graduation and the real world.

So I was not surprised by Mr. Hayes’ questionb.

“So Scott, have you decided what you’re going to do when you leave here?”

“Yeah, I think so,” I said, still facing the wall because it seemed the right thing to do. “I’ve got summer session, then I’m going to go home and probably stay with my folks while I look for a job.”

My parents not only approved of this plan but suggested it. Something about “nest egg.”

“Oh, OK. Do you mind if I ask you a personal question.”

Didn’t seem odd considering where we were. “Sure.”

“Have you ever faced a challenge? I mean a real challenge. Something that changed you, made you take a completely different direction than one you’d intended.”

“I, uh, I’m not sure, I—“

“How did you come to Cal Poly?”

“Oh, I knew since I was a freshman in high school that I’d be coming here because my dad’s friend had two daughters who went here and he always said how—“

“Why journalism?”

“I, well, I took journalism when I was a sophomore and really liked it so I knew since then—“

“Have you ever suffered a tragedy that really shook you? Your parents are alive, right? Anyone close to you die, something that made you question what the hell was going on in your life?”

“A couple of years ago my dog died. But I was here when it happened and my dad called—“

“So, really, you’ve lead a pretty easy life. No big surprises. Things turning out the way you planned.”

“Yeah, I guess.” I suddenly felt very guilty.

“Have you ever thought about shaking things up? Turning things around? Going somewhere that’s going to make you uncomfortable?”

“Not really, no.”

“Because I’m going to be honest with you. I’ve seen hundreds of students come through here. Some of them have God-given talent. Everything they do, it just comes to them. Hardly any effort at all.

But others have to really work at it. They struggle and the fail and they get back up again. But every time they fall, they see what happened. They stand up again, a little stronger. Only they don’t realize it. All they know is they keep falling. But I see it. I can see them getting better and better. You know which one you are?”

“I guess I’m—“

“You don’t have a fairy godmother who’s going to come down from the sky, touch her wand to your dick and suddenly make it 12 inches long. You’re not that kind of guy. You have to really work at it. And the last thing you need is to be comfortable.”

And right then, I knew. Looking back, it seems the moment for which the word “epiphany” was created.

At that point, my life changed.

TO BE CONTINUED