If human mortification can be measured on a scale of one to ten, I suppose the spectrum ranges from a mild Oh-Boy-Are-My-Cheeks-Red to the catastrophic Better-Move-Out-Of-Town-And-Change-My-Name. Of course, the great thing about a sense of humor is that it can do a lot towards shaving a few points off this intensity scale. But even with my self-deprecation intact, what I experienced tonight -- yes, the very night I write this! -- registered a solid seven at the least.
Friends, I shit you not.
Those who are more familiar with my style know that rarely do such cheap verbal shots (see previous sentence) find their way into my works of fiction. Nay, I assure you, tonight's anecdote is a raw, gritty, very authentic, very human ordeal. Some may be compelled to embarrassment on my behalf; others, to fear -- this could very well happen to you or someone you know.
I have a part-time job as a delivery driver down at the Pita Pit, an emerging franchise in the hip, health-conscious market sector. The past few days, including the Thanksgiving holiday, have naturally been pretty dead, leaving my fellow employees and I with plenty of time to sit around and (again, pardon the overused metaphor) shoot the shit. During one of the lulls in business, around 6:30 or so, Nick, the shift leader, bet me a pita on his dollar that I couldn't chug an eight-ounce cup of black olive juice. Now, I absolutely abhor olives. Whether it arrived in my colon in time to bear relevance to this story, I can't say; but being famished, I found the prospect of free food more tantalizing than the juice was appalling, so I pinched my nose and pretended it was Pepsi. Nauseating, saline Pepsi, with the occasional mushy chunks.
Well, Nick ate crow while I made my pita, piling on the double meat and finishing it just as another waves of tipsy students drifted through our doors from one of the adjacent bars. As I took their orders at the register, I suddenly felt a brood of my special brown butt puppies poking their wet noses at the pet-door. Not exactly howling and clawing to get out, mind you, but just pawing at it lightly enough to make their presence known. Sorry if we disturbed you, they seemed to say, but just let us out at your convenience, and there shouldn't be any problems.
As we had more than enough staff on hand to prepare our drunken customers' Sunday morning vomit, I printed off the last receipt and headed for the small unisex restroom in the corner of the restaurant. Being one of those narrow hole-in-the-wall places with your basic rectangular floor plan, the restroom door faced directly out towards the tables; the closest one is about five feet from the door when closed. We do things simple here, and have forgone the luxury of any toilet/dining area partition, save the door.
Considering what others have posted on this site regarding reading material, I probably should have taken some in with me. Even a take-out menu would have done the job, as this turd-train proved much more reluctant to leave the depot than I initially realized. Even so, I wasn't going to fret. I had all the time in the world. So I took it easy at first, bearing down just hard enough to coax the shy turtle's head toward my sphincter. But things were moving slowly. As I let up to take a breath, I was reminded of what happens when you squeeze and release the bulb of an eyedropper -- or more appropriately, a turkey baster -- while it's still submerged in the liquid. No matter how fast or hard you force that stuff out, the moment you release, there it goes, right back in there.
So I'm comfortable on the toilet. No time crisis. No sharting. No sagging, stained, stench-ridden pants to suffer through for the rest of my shift. Good for this author, but where's the hilarity in that? If you're feeling a bit teased by the promise of a good story, then you'll understand what I was going through at the moment, teased by the promise of a good shit. It felt like someone had anchored the tail end of the turd to my upper intestines with a bungee cord -- the harder I strained, the harder that fantastic elastic band snapped it back into place upon release. I was engaged in a full-on tug-of-war with my bowels; a challenge, yes, but I was not about to hand victory over to my ass on a silver platter.
Conjuring my best Dirty Harry tone, I folded my forearms across my knees and rested my forehead, peering down into the bowl.
"You gotta ask yourself one question."
I took a few deep breaths, preparing to eject the stubborn log once and for all.
"Do I feel lucky?"
I am not exaggerating in the least here. These words were spoken, and I do not feel weird for doing so or admitting it, if I can have some fun in the process. However, as I turned on Master Thrust, which requires every ounce of available air against my diaphragm for pressurization, I only thought, "Well, do ya, punk?" I could feel success at last as the boxcars in my colon picked up a little steam and began chugging towards their final destination. The tiles on the floor blurred before me, and my face felt hot to the touch as I bore down like a pissed gorilla, veins throbbing in my neck.
Then it happened. BAM! The door swung wide open, hitting the wall, and there was Nick in the doorframe, mop and bucket in tow. I shouted out, my body spasming in shock, nearly dethroning me in mid-shit.
"Fuck, man!" he yelled back, slamming the door shut as fast as he'd opened it. "I'm sorry, I didn't know," I heard him say, muffled from outside the door.
I'm not that Shameful of a shitter, but it took quite awhile for my heartbeat to return to normal. I stared at the lock, incredulous. I'd discover later that while I'd locked it, the door had never latched completely shut. I don't think I will ever be able forget the eyes of what had by then doubled to about a dozen patrons staring at me over their food, frozen with wonder and disgust; but it's strangely consoling to know that they will likely never forget the sight of the guy they'd seen minutes ago tossing veggies onto their pitas straining his mud factory with his pants around his ankles.
I gave it another five minutes before I ventured back out to face the music, making a point of the fact that I had thoroughly washed my hands. Mercifully, most of the customers who'd witnessed me at my worst had moved on, perhaps induced to vomiting on the sidewalk earlier than they'd expected to that night. After the initial set of awkward apologies, Nick and I shared a long, good laugh about it.
"Hey," he said, "shit happens."
-- Obi-Dung Kenobi
