While home a few months ago visiting my fiancé in upstate New York, I decided to do a little birthday shopping for her while she was at work. I hit all the major malls with no success. The only thing I found worthy of purchase was a Deal Meal at the food-court Chinese place: two meats and a side dish for $3.95. I chose sesame chicken and sweet-and-sour pork, a side of veggie lo mien, and washed it all down with 32oz. of Mountain Dew. I then left Crossgates (a major mall in Albany) and headed to the smaller, less traveled malls, in the hopes of finding the perfect gift.
Twenty-five minutes later, I was at Rotterdam Square. Rotterdam Square is one of those malls that used to be a nice place, but has atrophied in the ten years or so. Bear in mind that I've lived in Syracuse a while -- when Rotterdam Square was close to home, I'd go there quite a bit (instead of class), but it's been many years, and my malledge (mall-knowledge) had depreciated almost as much as the building itself. So there I was, wandering through Filenes, still in pursuit of something I'd be proud to bestow upon my love, when the rumbles started.
It felt like my belly button was going to untie and decimate anything and everyone unlucky enough to be within a 6-foot radius. Action needed to be taken, and soon. I frantically begged a stock-person for directions to the nearest men's room, and was crestfallen when he referred me to the movie theater wing; that was easily a quarter mile away. I dropped the plush bathrobe I was considering and flung the shower curtain (which was for me -- not a very romantic birthday gift) clear into the Ladies Intimates section as I made a hasty retreat.
The sweat stood on my brow like dew on a fern, my breath harsh and rapid even though I wasn't quite yet running. I think people could see the urgency in my eyes, for they steered out of my way without being asked -- everyone except for the standard old lady doing the standard old lady walk down the aisle. You know what I mean: you fake left, she goes left. You fake right, she goes right. Impossible to pass, impossible to guess. So I threw the Boy Scout Creed to the wind and shoved her aside. I felt bad, but the gurgling in my gut nearly drowned out her walker rattling like old bones as it hit the tile floor. This was an emergency. All bets were off.
At this point, my mind drifted to the ethereal world described by those who have had near death experiences. I could see people talking, but could hear no sound. The lights were too bright, the colors too vivid, and I couldn't do a thing about it; I was on autopilot. My brain floating in a trippy philosophic limbo, I considered the glaring juxtaposition of a mall nearly out of business, and yet so full of people. I had a sense of motion, but no sense of actually moving. My brown eye was clenched tight against the internally unleashed torrents. That Chinese food was going through me like a laser beam.
The disassociation of mind and body continued past the food court (once-enticing aromas now smelled like death in the air), past the carousel, past the fountain -- just over half way there. The muzak and murmur of torpid crowds co-mingled in my consciousness. A brilliant flash of cleavage to my left alerted my higher-brain that my lower, reptilian, survive-at-all-costs brain had commanded my legs to run like winged Mercury, yet failed to stop the relentless peristaltic movement of my bowels. Another irony.
The smell of popcorn, repulsive in my dire straits, was the lighthouse of mercy I'd been seeking. I don't remember feeling any pain during my dash for the porcelain, at least not until I snapped out of it, forcing my senses to return to focus, needing them to determine where the throne of relief was located.
Sensory overload. At once my swollen gut, my straining balloon-knot, the gurgling of my intestines (trying to pack what cannot be packed), the sweat on my brow, the flutter in my legs (they knew we would not make it), and the stench of panic hit me like a punch from Cassius Clay. Fortunately, it hit me just in time to stop my flight and notice the pitifully small sign located above a concourse on the left. With Gabriel leading the band, Heraldic Angels sounded as my eyes organized two R's, two O's, two S's and some other nonsense into "RESTROOMS." Like a cartoon, my legs turned left as my body continued straight, and I swear I heard that "woo woo woooooo" sound you hear when Scooby Doo suddenly changes directions.
Bursting through the door, my rectum unable to withstand even just one more PSI, I hit the nearest stall door with my shoulder, turned while dropping trou at the same time, and began to sit -- but the two-second old woman delay meant the difference.
My anus, now the gates of Hades, opened with a scalding torrent of Chinese food, erupting like Mount Etna. I was still semi-standing, almost at a 45-degree angle. What I remember most was the sound of my acidified rectum-rocket-fuel hitting tile and chrome in a cacophony of sheer exuberance and bitter remorse. Gravity being what it is, I continued on my downward trajectory, unimpeded, although by all calculations, Newton's Third Law should've shot me clear through the wall and into Cinema 3.
A lone bit of back-splatter caught my elbow while the contents of my colon befouled once clean water and once white porcelain. The insult of the aroma was nearly immediate. Through olfactory sense alone I could tell the carnage was bad; I was almost too afraid to look behind me. So I didn't -- until the flash flood of fecal foulness fettered. Alas, the TP was mounted slightly down and to the right, so I couldn't help but glance.
It looked like a murder scene -- a poop-war gang bang gone horribly wrong. There were feculent gobs everywhere. You may think I'm lying when I say that somehow my nozzle managed to hit tile more than three feet off the ground, so I simply assure you: I'm not.
Wiping was futile, but I tried anyway. Got my ass cleaned as best as possible, stood as far away from the amalgamation of poop and tile as best I could, zipped up. Letting loose a deep sigh of relief, I opened the door and headed to the sink. Washed very, very well. Elbows included. I caught another glimpse of the damage in the mirror; it looked like a septic truck got car-bombed.
Whistling to myself, I went to the door. It swung in without my assistance, propelled by a rather trashy looking guy pushing a Rubbermaid cart equipped with spray bottles, a mop, a Wet Floor sign and a garbage bag. Realizing the horror he was about to encounter, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a twenty. Handing it to him, without making eye contact, I said, "Sorry bro," and let the door hiss shut on its gas hinge. I never looked back -- although if it were a movie, I would've slunk away to the sound of his muffled howls.
-- Dave J
