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 A Stool For SchoolPosted 06.27.2007 by Roberto (11)
I am now entering Year Two at the Karachi American School in Pakistan. For occult reasons of my own, I decided last year to sign a two-year contract to teach high school history in what the travel brochures refer to as "The Pearl of the Arabian Sea". Suffice to say that the brochures have done less than a stellar job in capturing the essence of Karachi.
As part of my contract, I have to have a full physical every year. I'm used to the traditional say-aahhhhh, tap-the-knee, collect (and probably discard without further ado) urine, and the part when they grab my balls and make me cough. This school, though, demands a stool sample. Again, I warn you that this has nothing to do with furniture. After the typical seven-counter, eleven-sets-of-conflicting-instructions runaround, I finally got to the point in which I was given the containers. One was a very attractive -- really! -- solid glass flask, shaped almost like a perfume bottle and even seeming to have something of an antique quality to it. This was for my pee-pee. The other was an opaque white cylinder, roughly silver dollar-sized in diameter. This would have been for the poo-poo. It was Friday, prayer day, and I, under some bizarre illusion that I will better fit in with the culture if I wear the funny clothes, had on a new shalwaar kameez -- a baggy shirt than falls below the knees and billowing pants that could fit a small army but cling to the waist owing to a waistband string. I had already become well-acquainted with the fact that pee-pee and poo-poo are somewhat more difficult in the shalwaar kameez; so, with the single-user bathroom solidly locked, I decided to dispense with decorum and simply remove it all. Pee-pee was easy. Even enjoyable. After all, how often are we given the privilege of pissing into an antique perfume bottle? As for poo-poo... The first problem that I encountered was how... well, how do I... you know... get "it" into the small receptacle? Were this a Euro-toilet, the kind with the pre-water "shelf" that seems designed to allow one to analyze one's own stool before the big flush, I could have easily availed myself of that bizarre design feature; but this was a standard, God-bless-the-USA, straight-into-the-water model. I toyed with the notion of simply holding the container under my most unmentionable of orifices, but let's face it: we don't always know exactly what or how much is going to come out, nor the "state" in which it will reveal itself. The goodly folk at the Agha Khan University Hospital had also provided me with a little balsa wood spoonlet, the type used for ice cream cups. Initially I'd hoped that I'd be receiving a sweet and frosty treat for my hard work afterwards, but it then occurred to me that this might be a recommended implement to enhance the process. Perhaps it could. But it also brought forth its own questions, most of which began with, "So, how exactly...?" Obviously, once "it" has hit the water, it is too late. Perhaps the spoonlet (and at least it wasn't a spork) is to be held at the ready to sort of scrape and collect "it" as it slides by? Or perhaps -- as dear friend and consummate cultured lady Cathy Noble once put it -- I was to "wait for the mole to pop its head out" and then perform a quick decapitation? Basic unpleasantness of the task aside, I sincerely doubted my ability to pull off any of these delicate maneuvers. And all of this was secondary to the initial problem: would I even be able to make or do (at the moment, I wish English were like many other languages in which a single verb shares both meanings) "it"? You know, we can all -- aside from the prostate patient or otherwise impaired among our ranks -- manage a little pee pee when necessary. (As an aside, I am reminded of a delightful story in The Onion about a man perplexed as to how to carry out his vet's order to get a urine sample from his dog.) So I could manage pee-pee. But "it" is a little harder to coax upon demand. "It" is either there or it isn't. I had prepared, though. Knowing what awaited me, I'd neglected my traditional morning constitutional. Still, as I entered the room, I felt no particular urge to relieve myself in that manner. I sat for ten minutes. Nuttin'. I tried pushing, pressing, and doing things with my right index finger that, though they aren't quite as horrifying as the worst that your sick, scatological mind can fathom, weren't necessarily a fit topic of conversation during high tea with the Queen. I tried getting my mind off of it for a while. I even text-messaged a compatriot in the school's office with an update on my progress and an offer to give follow up with a blow-by-blow account. (Her response: "Nooooooooooo oooooooooooooo ooooooooooo thanx...") Finally, after twenty or so minutes, I could feel a little something happening. Could this be "it"? Perhaps. I concentrated as if I were Karl Wallenda stranded three hundred feet over bed of concrete. (At this point, it would be apropos to once again bring up the marvel of my intestines. I have been on the Subcontinent for over a year and have yet to have anything that could more than remotely be termed diarrhea. If anything, I have been constipated to a slightly unusual degree. To deem my intestines "divine" might be -- slightly -- overkill. But I truly believe that there is something special at work here. At very least, I can say that my intestines -- in terms of performance, service, consistency, and, if one can actually use this word for an intestinal tract, compassion -- fair no worse and probably a bit better than the other major divinities out there: Allah, Yahweh, Ram, The Lord, etc. So, hell, let's go ahead and deify my bowels. Just don't produce any cartoon drawings of them; that is an unforgivable offense in this faith.) Finally, success! Albeit a particularly milquetoast and emasculating success. For those of you who have spent any amount of time around farm animals, the result will be easy to picture: I produced a veritable rabbit pellet. And being so small and compact, "it" made no rush toward the placid waters below, but rather dangled (damn, I was hoping to avoid using that word) eloquently from my unmentionable area, and was easily collected in the plastic cup. A quick text message to my friend back at the school confirming my triumph (I am assuming this to now be a dead friendship), and I was off. Oh, and the charge for the analysis? Two dollars and sixteen cents. That's a deal no matter how you... well, how you cut it. An open offer to any of my uninsured friends reading this: if you need a stool analysis and can't afford one on your meager salary, send it hither. I'll see what I can do. Post new comment
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