My mind has grown used to the desert’s stillness. Living in a rural town with no skyscrapers, only two grocery stores and surrounded by public land has altered my worldview. I can barely tolerate Colorado’s cityscape now. A place known to the rest of the country as a haven for outdoor lovers has become too bustling for my enjoyment.

Over Christmas break, we drove the I-70 to the Front Range. Four to eight lanes of semi-truck traffic was anxiety inducing. I gawked at the narrow valleys nestled between 14,000 foot breathtaking mountains- stuffed and stacked to the brim with condos and concrete.

Even Christmas lights, once a delightful childhood memory, has become an eyesore. We drove through countless ski bum communities with cookie cutter condos that covered the only natural thing protruding from pavement in neon blue, red, green, and purple lights. A synthetic society at the base of magnificent remote mountains seemed bleak.

I must mention that the mountains were nearly bald. In late December, there was no snow at 7,000 or 8,000 or even 10,000 feet. A thin layer clung to the 13,000 and 14,000 foot peaks. Colorado was and is still experiencing the driest winter on record.

We stopped at a park outside of Grand Junction in Fruita, Colorado to let the dogs out and stretch our legs. Across from the park was a public restroom with luminous lights and no door handle.

To enter, I pressed a glowing green button, which turned red as the door slowly opened. Once I was inside, there was no lock or latch, but another glowing green button. I pressed it, hoping the door would lock. It turned red, so I assumed it was safe to drop my pants.

A robotic man’s voice erupted from an overhead speaker thanking me for visiting Fruita and reminding me to visit the town’s fine dining and shopping in between wipes.

I’ve never missed pooping in a communal groover down the river more in my life.

Wanting to get out of there as fast as possible, I stood up and started to panic. There was no handle to flush. No button either. I began feeling the wall around the toilet, hoping to find some secret panel to press that would flush my business.

The man’s voice still continued advertising different shops to visit and I considered yelling, “SHUT UP!” but figured it wouldn’t work.

Shrugging, I left the toilet as is and tried washing my hands in one of those motion activated sinks that never works on the first time.

What happened to handles? Did the pandemic panic get rid of physical simple levers that never failed us?

I continued to wave my hands about waiting for this magical sensor to turn on the damn water and wondered what would happen if the power went out? Would I be locked inside or would the door open?

Finally, water spurt from the sink in two second increments while the man’s voice repeated his spiel about shopping and fine dining.

Get me outta here!

Of course there were no paper towels so I wiped my wet hands on my pants. Eyeing the full toilet and lack of handle one last time, I pressed the red button that supposedly locked the door and would allow me to leave.

Nothing happened. I slammed my finger against the button three more times and it finally turned green. The door opened slowly, the robotic man thanked me for using the facility, and get this: the toilet flushed when the door opened.

Technology has gone too far. It’s made the world a less logical place.

What did door handles do to deserve this treatment? What happened to living by the slogan, If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it?

As I crossed the street into the neon Christmas crazy park, I looked up to the sky and couldn’t see a single star on a cloudless night.

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