A few years ago, in order to make ends meet, I took an evening job as a doctor's driver, with about three four-hour shifts a week. On the day in question I was due to work from 4:00 until 8:00 PM; but another driver failed to show up at the last minute, so I was asked to do a double shift lasting until midnight. I reluctantly agreed, but I was totally unprepared for my double shift -- in more ways than one.

I didn't get on with all of the doctors I drove, but this particular doctor was extremely pleasant; in fact he was the absolute archetype of an English gentleman. We set off into the city on our rounds in our pathetic little noddy car, and at 8:00 we even managed to get back to the base and take a short break. It was here where I casually and very foolishly ignored this faint urge to squat on the big white telephone.

Back out on the road, it slowly occurred to me that this had been a big mistake, as the old nether regions were beginning to register like a Geiger counter at Three Mile Island. Thankfully these situations occur very rarely; but when they come to a head, the unmistakable signs are all too familiar. With my attention now fully focused, my eyes wide open, and my pupils dilated in panic, I realized it was now just nine o'clock -- another three hours to go until the end of the shift. And almost as if they were fully cognizant of this fact, my bowels began to contort themselves into inhuman positions, like a devilish scene from Dante's Inferno.

Glancing down, I could see my knuckles whitened around the steering wheel in a Vulcan death grip as I engaged the doctor in small talk with feigned nonchalance. With clenched buttocks and gritted teeth, I tried over and over to convince myself that this was a trivial matter that could wait until home time. Of course, the common sense thing to do would have been to turn to the doctor and enunciate, "I say, old boy, would you mind awfully if we cancelled the next call while I speed off for a shit?" But when did common sense ever come into life, anyway?

Therefore, it was a mixture of pride, decorum and stupidity that wouldn't allow me to do the right thing; and as the evening unfolded my mind feverishly raced to solve this seemingly intractable problem. I finally settled upon the no-brain, no-hope, grasping at straws solution: I would use my iron willpower to fend off the ineluctable consequences of delay.

However, there was understandably a great deal of vacillation involved in this decision as the waves of hell continued to crash and recede and the doctor set off and returned from yet another call. By the time we hit eleven o'clock an election had been held, and, if you'll pardon the pun, I was worried my asshole was going to witness a landslide. I was going to have to take a pony, come what may. (Pony is Cockney rhyming slang, pony and trap -- get it?)

Fortunately this particular doctor usually disappeared for as long as 20-25 minutes on a call; it was during this time I decided to execute my cunning plan. I fought with my conscience for two or three minutes after he left the car as I realized in a densely populated city, even at 11 PM, the chances of discovery would be great; but the old one-eyed prune continued to blink like a cat with sand in its eye. Finally, the urgency of the situation negated any thoughts of caution. Tearing at the door handle I leapt from the car, frantically searching for a suitable place. I ran up and down the road until in my desperation I found a spot between two parked cars that would give me at least some cover. Now, in moments like these, I have noticed that once a definitive decision has been made, there are certain temporal limitations imposed by one's physiological makeup. Like the messages in Mission: Impossible that inform the reader of their impending self-destruction, there comes a point where one's ass says, "If you do not get your pants down in five seconds, you will shit yourself." So, with the dexterity of a Valencian flamenco dancer, I undid my belt and pulled down my jeans in one smooth flourish. And about a nanosecond after my pants cleared my sphincter, a stream of shit hit the tarmac like a dog cheerfully engaged in projectile vomiting. After an eternity that probably only lasted ten seconds, the waves of hell had been replaced by waves of relief -- absolute bliss!

I had fortuitously equipped myself with a small amount of tissue and, glancing furtively about, I hastily began wiping my arse. Right at this moment, just as my jeans were halfway up, before I had truly made myself comfortable, as if the scene had been choreographed, this old guy strolled around the corner with his dog.

Upon seeing me he stiffened, stopped dead in his tracks, and -- with weary inevitability; I knew he would -- began eyeing me with extreme suspicion. In my head I shouted at the top of my voice, "You stupid fool, why don't you just go away and leave me in peace!" However, I said nothing. I quickly discarded the tissue and hastily buckled my belt.

But with the emotions of the evening -- panic, fear, relief, triumph and remorse -- that had culminated in this final act, I was in no mood to appease this bloke. Instead of going back to the car I obstinately decided to hang around, fulfilling his suspicions with my arms folded. In return, this old guy ostensibly pretended to find all manner of excuse to hang around on some lawn, trying not to look like he was keeping his eye on this distrustful-looking character. Luckily, neither he nor the dog went near the pile of shit, now gently steaming between two parked cars.

The standoff continued, becoming more and more reminiscent of a scene between Lee Van Cleef and Clint Eastwood, with me growing more and more irate as he just won't go away. Finally the doctor reappeared; I bade my stalker good evening, and we got into the car and were on our way, leaving the old guy to ponder and, I hope, to inspect the area where I had been standing.

-- Alonso Baboy