It all started when my cousin and I decided to hit a bar, play some pool, and have a few beers. We had both had some major shifts in our work lives and neither of us had been doing well financially, so a hangout session was in order to vent and recap on recent happenings. I myself was eager to tell him about a new government job I had just acquired -- something I had waited to hear about for some time. I had just started training the day before and was not looking forward to the mind-numbing days of it ahead of me. The orientation was boring and tedious, but it was fairly basic stuff; and hell, I was getting paid for it. The problem was the trip to the training area: it required getting up at six in the morning and enduring sixty-minutes of rush-hour city traffic. Little did I know the other problem: that each beer I shared with my cousin was bringing me closer to the near-scatastrophic story I am about to relate.

Before starting my current job I was unemployed for a while, which lead to much sleeping-in. My bowel movements had become as irregular as my sleep habits; and getting up so early would prove to be a rough transition for both. I was a little concerned about my poop schedule being so off and having such a long drive to work, but I didn't think too much of it at the time. I woke up bright and early at six, took a quick shower, grabbed a bagel with some lunchmeat, and took off a full hour-and-a-half before I was supposed to be there.

Normally after a night of drinking, no matter how light, I always take a pretty rough shit the next morning. But I had completely forgotten about the few beers I had had the night before; and, apparently, so did my ass.

The first half of the trip was uneventful and stress-free. It wasn't until the first time I pressed on the brake to slow for traffic that I got a reminder of the night before: a subtle cramp on both sides of my gut. I immediately panicked. Ever since I got my first car a year ago I have been paranoid about having to shit in the car. I think it stems from my bastardly parents who always made me hold it in on family trips as a kid. No matter how bad we kids had to go it was always, "We'll be there soon." Now after all these years, that trauma was being relived. The fear and the helplessness kicked in full force, and I instantly broke out in a cold sweat.

I had no idea what to do. I was already halfway to my destination; and, being from the suburbs, I didn't know the city well. I didn't know where I could turn off and take a quick dump. And all that I knew about city driving only made things worse: parking is scarce, and that which you find often involves parallel parking; you need money to park; many streets are one-way; and the streets are complicated. Seeing as I was in no situation to hunt for parking and that I had no money to pay for it anyway, I was up the shit creek without a paddle. To complicate things further, I was in the far left lane of the highway -- with traffic mounting from behind, my odds of getting to an exit soon were slim.

And add all of this on top of the fact that I had to be at training on time. If this weren't a government job I would have said, "Screw it" and went on a hunt for a crapper; but this was something I couldn't miss. All I could do was curse my cousin for offering to pay for those damn drinks.

At least the need wasn't immediate. I felt something coming on, but it wasn't an emergency... yet. I let out a little gas and the feeling subsided a bit. Still, the stop-go, stop-go routine of the traffic was rattling my already-stressed pudding cup. I had at least twenty minutes before salvation and I didn't know how much more I could take.

I looked down to the pocket in my door where a plastic bag was held for an emergency. If the traffic was at a standstill, I thought, I would be able to use it; but though the traffic was slow, it never quite stopped, and there were no shoulders. Besides, adequate clean-up might prove impossible considering I was going to be spending a day in a government building. "Just stay relaxed and calm," I told myself. "The more you worry, the more you'll have to go."

My self-coaching worked for a while. When the congestion finally let up, I floored it. Normally I am a very slow driver, keeping close to the speed limit. But God himself couldn't stop me now. As I erratically switched lanes and tightened my buns, I imagined a cop pulling me over for speeding and me subsequently shitting myself, getting ticketed, and potentially losing my job. I could feel myself getting hotter and sweatier as I got off the bridge. My relief at seeing my exit could only be topped by the relief of release, which, as my car hurled off the highway, seemed imminent. It was at this point the cramps became so intense that I nearly lost control of both my car and my starfish. After driving roughly twenty-eight miles, and with only about two to go, I really, deeply felt, for the first time in my life, that I would shit my pants.

The panic hit hardest at the red lights after the exit. At the second light, I decided to take a chance and see if I could get the ol' gas trick to work again. I pushed a little, hoping for a bust and accompanying relief. But that push gave me the feeling I'll never forget. The turd that had been waiting ever-so-patiently for all these miles had had enough, and decided to get its little brown foot in the door while it had the chance. Another great milestone in my life: the first time I felt a backdoor breach. Now I knew the true meaning of ‘groundhogging it.'

It was at this point that I had to make a crucial decision. There was a McDonald's only a block from the building. Stop at the Mickey D's, or hold it for just one more block?

I was burning rubber so fast I didn't want to stop the momentum. I thought I could bear it out for the final stretch. I moaned out loud as I blew past the McDonald's; as I made the last block's drive, I quickly realized it was a mistake. Thanking God there was no one in front of me in the driveway, I quickly scanned the parking lot, which seemed as packed as my rectum. Another decision: drive to the back of the lot and easily find an empty spot? Or search for a slot in front of the building?

Of course, in my panic, I irrationally chose the latter; I prayed I would miraculously find a vacant slot. "Oh my God oh my God," I repeated as I traversed the entire lot, thinking how much of a spot I'd be in after losing the rectal battle after all of this.

I finally found a space in the back. I darted for the entrance.

But as much of an emergency as I was in, I didn't think it wise to charge into a Federal building; so, upon reaching the walkway, I began a very painful power-walk. Surprisingly, the cramping had stopped during the run and I knew I would be able to make it to training unsoiled. I quickly scanned myself in and darted for the restroom on the ground floor, only steps away. "Finally," I thought, "it's all over." I took the handle and pulled it down.

Locked.

(I would later find out that these were the executive washrooms: off-limits to entry-level pants-shitting chumps like me.)

My last hope was the only bathroom I knew of at this point, up on the third floor. I made a mad dash for the stairs and within a minute found myself at the door to the bathroom -- which was, mercifully, empty. At the last glorious moment of opening the stall I almost lost complete control of my ass. It took all the effort I could muster to hold back the floodgates.

Normally such a release would induce euphoria, but this was a beer shit -- a beer shit that had waited far too long to be released. To my surprise, the explosion was quick and painless. More astonishingly, it was solid. A little loose, but solid. Typical of morning beer shits for me.

I put my face in my hands and nearly cried. My stomach was feeling a little upset at this point; but more, I was mentally and psychically exhausted. The potential mortification and other consequences I would have felt had I lost control were still running through my mind, and still would for some time afterwards.

I stood up after I collected myself and felt the immediate need to vomit. I held back as much as I could, but the feeling persisted. I walked around the building for a while (I did arrive a bit early, after all) and got a drink from the water fountain. The nausea was intense and persistent, but it faded after an hour or so.

I sat through the terrible lectures and training for the rest of the day without incident. As I write this, I'm still not done with training, and I will be forced to make the trip a couple more times. I have yet to tell my cousin of the situation he helped put me in; I can only plan on how I'm going to prevent this from ever happening again.

And my childhood poop-trauma? It's been reinforced ten-fold.