“I have a sad story to tell you
It may hurt your feelings a bit
Last night when I walked into my bathroom
I stepped in a big pile of …shhhhh . . . aving cream,
be nice and clean. . . .
Shave ev’ry day and you’ll always look keen.” Benny Bell.
The following is true. Names and places are also true. No one is being protected here. Our story begins, as so many do, at the Pocono race track.
A day long adventure, including the ingestion of a multitude of mature beverages, a hoagie the length and circumference of a Clydesdale’s leg and a dump truck full of snacks ranging from peanuts to jalapeño and habanero beef jerky (hot? Like the hinges of hell in your mouth!) to, well you name it; it went in the pie hole.
We were ready to begin the trek homeward.
It’s not a long drive but that summer’s eve it seemed like the Bataan death march. About 15 minutes into what should have been about an hours drive traffic stopped dead. Then when we did move it was only at a snail’s pace and only fifty feet at a time.
An hour passed. I knew I was in trouble.
I have been acquainted with my bowels for more than five decades. I know almost to the second how much time I left before I have an accident that will put me in a trance as I fill my pants and then have to throw my underwear in the woods. Not that as a self respecting adult male I have ever had to do that. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. I have no idea what happened to that underwear, dear.
We finally got on the open road. My internal bowel gauge was telling me I had about 20 minutes. I frantically searched my memory of our route for places to take a dump. In my discomfort I wondered if I could just knock on someone’s door at random and beg.
Things were getting tense below the belt. I was sweating and cramping. It made driving more than an adventure. I am proud to say my traveling companions knew not of my distress. Of course as passengers they were enjoying even more adult beverages. That may have dulled their senses somewhat.
The cramps intensified. I knew that if I tried to relive the pressure by opening the gas valve that I would have, how can I put this delicately, shat myself. So I kept the exhaust valve tightly clenched and gripped the wheel until my knuckles turned white.
At last I remembered. There was a convenience mart up ahead a few miles. I checked my bowel gauge and it said maybe.
As I pulled into the parking lot in a four wheel skid I threw the door open and told my passengers’ of my mission. “Why don’t you just do it behind the store?” Mickey asked.
My bowel gauge sensed we were close. It registered a two minute warning.
I headed for the store praying they had a restroom. YES! Over there! As I moved towards it (ever try to walk nonchalantly while holding your butt cheeks in a clench?) I noticed the door to the hallway was heavy duty steel. It had huge u shaped metal prongs on either side of it with a two by four leaning on the wall. My mind registered that it must be to secure the door from what ever was on the other side. I really didn’t care. Bowel gauge T-minus 1:30 and counting.
Into the hallway I moved and thanks be to the God who watches over little children and drunks the Men’s room door was unlocked. I flung it open.
Two things struck me at once. It stank. I mean not a bad smell. But an aroma you could cut with a chainsaw if you didn’t mind ruining the blade. And number two. It was filthy. Here is the cover of the Rolling Stones Beggars’ Banquet album that they outlawed.
This toilet makes the one I was in look like a surgical operating room.
In the hell hole I had just entered there was a guy using the urinal. The stall was occupied and locked. I must have groaned because the guy at the urinal looked at me and said “Bedonnaminute.” He was so drunk, I noticed that when he turned to look at me he was pissing on his shoes.
My bowels, sensing where I was notified me that the countdown was T-minus 15 seconds and the tanks were filling.
The stall door opened a small boy darted out and made a bee line for the door. My drunken companion said “Smhellylilshitainah? Which I translated to mean “Smelly little shit, is he not?”
I lunged for the door. And things started to do downhill fast.
First off my bowels began to make the noise that submarines do before they go under water. A klaxon sounded and “DIVE DIVE DIVE” was being shouted.
But the “Smehlly” little kid had not flushed his offering.
I tried the handle and all became clear. Toilet broken. No Flushee.
At this point to say I didn’t give a shit would be wrong. I did. And I did right on top of the little kids. What choice did I have?
While this was going on the drunk not two feet away began to yell. ‘Yarnt taking a shit in there ar ya? Holy F(*% how can you do that? Ar ya shitting in there? Hey guys, he’s taking shit in here!”
He went out the door and I continued my duty.
“Bang!” the door slammed open and the drunk and several more like him came in to offer me advice.
”Jesus, man-are you really shitting in there? Don’t sit on the seat. I can’t F*&%ing believe that you are F$%^ing shitting in there!”
And so on.
It took me what felt like ten years to finish my duty. Again, thanks to the Lord of dirty filthy bathrooms there was toilet paper.
My tormenters eventually tired of yelling at me (I think it had more to do with the aroma I was producing then anything else) and as I left my pile in the bowl and headed out the door I figured the arrangement out. The bathrooms were a shared affair with a bar next to the convenient mart and the bar was hosting a Hell’s Angels happy hour.
I hurried out of the store but not without knocking over a display of something on my way out. The Indian behind the counter yelled something at me but I was moving at warp nine by then.
I relayed this story to the long suffering wife whose only comment was, “Why didn’t you go before you left?” The kind of advice you give to a potty trained three year old right?
But alas I am much older and wiser than that. Right?
The Back to 3/4/11