I originally was going to post this as a comment under
My First Memory of Poop, but it sort of took on a life of it's own.
At the time of this story I was six years old. My mother has always been terrified of flying. And bugs. And snakes. And traffic lights. And the dark. And Republicans. And... okay, my mom is pretty much a pussy! Anyway, despite divorcing my dad two years previously, Mom still visited him from time to time. It was the Christmas season and we were headed from our home in California to his apartment in Florida to celebrate the holiday. Mom chose to take Amtrak rather than risk a coronary flying across the country. So we boarded the Sunset Limited in Los Angeles left for the fun and sun in Florida.
A day into the trip, the train stopped for maintenance in El Paso. So far it had been really exciting for a kid of six years old, who had only seen Texas in Disney cartoons. Plus, I felt really grown up because Mom let me use the bathroom on my own, even if it was one of those newfangled things with the electronic buttons and sucker buckets.
During our stop, I felt the familiar tingle at my back door. I excused myself to the upstairs restroom, locked the door, and lifted the seat. It was filthy! Some drunken slob had come in and left flitzcaca all over the inside of the metal bowl. Also, someone -- possibly the same drunk -- had pissed all over the seat. And I REALLY didn't have time to head downstairs to the other facilities!
Desperate, I dropped trou and hovered very carefully over the toilet. It was not easy to hold this position, clamped onto the wall with both hands and keeping my pants out of the piss while shitting at the same time. And the crew of the Sunset Limited didn't help matters: they must have changed locomotives or something, because just as my turtle peered out of its shell the train lurched backward. I landed with a thunk against the wall behind the toilet, sitting down with a disturbing moosh! sound. So much for staying clean.
Groaning, I pulled myself up to survey the damage. The turtle in question met its doom at the hands of the railroad. Its brown, steaming innards were smeared across the wall and mashed behind the toilet seat. Worse, shit covered my ass, legs, back, and arms (because I instinctively reached out to steady myself). Little bits of poop had migrated into my pants and shoes and smeared along the hem of my white shirt. This was truly a shiticane of Katrina proportions.
I was a big girl! Mom said so! I could use the bathroom on my own! If she saw this mess I would never be allowed to go without her standing around! So I snatched up the toilet paper and started mopping up the damage.
It took both rolls of toilet paper. Of course I carefully deposited their brown-smeared remains in the toilet bowl. Without flushing. (Kids!) Mount Saint Poopins protruded from the top of the toilet and I still had shit all over me.
I now resorted to paper towels and water. But after a few minutes the trashcan overflowed and the towel dispenser sat empty. I still was shitty, but at least it looked better than it had.
I now turned to the toilet. Back in the mid-eighties Amtrak had not yet installed those toilets that flush when you close the lid. Instead they flushed with a button placed near the back of the toilet -- this one smeared with turtle guts. I punched the button and stood back, knowing this wasn't going to be good.
The toilet made an interesting sort of gurgling noise. It put on an extra burst of power in an attempt to suck the massive load away. Then it suddenly choked and died. The little yellow light over the flusher began to flash. This certainly wasn't good!
I stood there for a moment, watching that little warning light flash. Looking at the overflowing trashcan. At the brown ass painting I had made on the wall. And then I did what any red-blooded American kid would do in this situation: I tucked in my shitty shirt and ran like hell!
The train shivered to life as I sat down again. We pulled out of the station and were on our way east. As El Paso flashed by the windows, Mom started sniffing the air. "It smells like poo-poo in here," she commented. Mom was always using those stupid baby terms around me. I hated it!
"I guess someone had an accident," I said, trying not to scratch my itching asscrack.
Mom sniffed in my direction. "Did you remember to wipe your bottom?"
"Yes." I thought of that stinking mound of toilet paper just waiting for the car attendant to find it.
Mom continued to sniff. And I continued to pretend nothing happened.
"Did someone put a diaper in the trash, again?" she wondered. We had observed a group of mothers on the train who, instead of disposing of their babies' used diapers in the bathroom receptacle, just stuffed them in the trashcan for all to smell.
Mom just wasn't going to let this rest. Finally, she grabbed my shoulder, pulled me close, and took a huge whiff. Her nose wrinkled in disgust.
"You DO smell like poo-poo!" she exclaimed. In a second she pulled my shirt from my pants, revealing the chocolate hem.
"Did you have an accident in the bathroom?" she asked.
No, Mom. I paint myself in poo for the fun of it.
(Even at six years old, I was getting sarcastic.)
She reacted quickly, snatching me from my seat and dragging me down the aisle toward the stairs. That was the fortunate part: our suitcases were in the luggage rack downstairs. This meant she skipped my unintentional act of turd terrorism in the top bathroom.
We returned half an hour later, after a makeshift bath in the ladies lounge sink. My clothes were clean and I no longer itched from poop on my bare skin. It was just in time to see the car attendant enter the upstairs lavatory and jump back in horror.
"Some drunk must have messed up the bathroom again," remarked Mom, as she picked up her puzzle book.
The guy in front of us sighed. "I hate Amtrak."
