When Hiney Was Perched Upon A Trashcan
“You were gone for a while. I didn’t know where you went.” – Alex
Where I went, no one should have gone, but I had no choice.
Alex and I separated from a group that just finished a pleasant brunch. Alex was in town for one more day, and we decided to visit one of the more refined craft brew pubs for some Saturday beer drinking. We boarded a transit bus heading towards Mohawk Bend in Echo Park. Mohawk Bend has over sixty exclusive California-based microbrews on tap and an impressive array of micro-spirits distilled in the great Golden State. Los Angeles was experiencing an unusual heat wave, and I knew Mohawk Bend would keep us cool; but when we arrived, we discovered there was a private party, so the adventure took another turn.
We boarded a bus towards Hollywood, where I knew for certain Blue Palms Brewhouse was open. We had to walk a quarter mile to get there when we exited our bus stop. It was after I stopped in a liquor store to buy some smokes when the sudden force of gastrointestinal distress lifted my posture and accelerated my pace. We had a few blocks to go, and I knew the familiar restroom at Blue Palms would open its arms to greet the burst from my anus. I had my “out.”
As we approached a locked door and looked at the hours sign, my face dropped.
Current time: three o’ clock p.m.
Posted hours on Saturdays at the Blue Palms: five p.m. to two a.m.
Blue Palms is part of the building that is the Henry Fonda Music Box Theater. The theater’s gates were locked. The impact and urgency was so great that I would have shat myself silly if I was to try to make it up two blocks for an accessible toilet. There was a Pep Boys across the street, but my instinct knew Manny, Moe, and Jack would not let me take a shit in their home. I was fucked.
“Alex, I’m having an emergency. I gotta’ go to the bathroom. I’ll be back.”
With no other choice, I hobbled around the building to a massive parking lot. I jetted past two parking attendants hanging around their booth. In sight was a yard-sized trash container. It was hidden behind a large potted tree that partially hid the parking booth from its sight. In a panic, I pulled down my pants, and with one leg anchored to the asphalt, I lifted my other leg, edged my hiney onto the rim of the flimsy trashcan, and let loose with a slithery outpouring.
When I looked to see if the poo had made it in, there it lay on top of a Burger King bag. It was nasty. I then had the task of finding anything to wipe my wet butt cheeks. I rummaged through the trashcan, found some napkins tucked inside the BK bag, and went for it. I wiped the best I could and then took a short pause of relief as I pulled up my jeans. I thought I was done. I thought wrong.
Another wave from my uncompromising gut had me, literally, pegged against a wall. The parking lot was full of cars, and a moving vehicle with two women approached a spot and parked. Eye contact was made. They sat there.
I stood there in heat sweat. They weren’t moving. I had to.
I could not go back to that trashcan for another round. I glanced at them in shame while I contemplated my next move. Shit was to pour out at any second. I had nowhere else to go but to make my way toward a corner of the parking lot where a commercial storage bin lay. The bin was a perfect partition. As I slipped away from sight, I had to endure one more wave from my bowels. I laid it down on the hot asphalt. It was nasty.
I do not believe in miracles, nor the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, or any other supernatural interference dictating our lives, but there they were—several napkins placed on a steel beam that was part of the storage bin. I stood there with my pants wrapped around my ankles, and moisture tucked within the ass of my nakedness, and almost cried. It was as if the gods lead me to this exact place at this crucial moment. I wanted to kiss those napkins.
I used every available inch of those napkins. I knew the last shitting spree would hold me off momentarily, but I had a slight moral dilemma: Should I pick up after myself? This was not to happen. Not today. My rationale lead to the homeless among us: the unsung heroes of environmental efficiency. As David Bowie says, “We can be heroes, just for one day.”
I made my way back to the front of the building. Alex was still there. “You were gone for a while. I didn’t know where you went. Are you O.K.?”
“Yea,” I said. “There’s a pub up the road here”.
We went into Dillon’s Irish Pub, where the beer taps aren’t the cleanest, but it was the next step to my cleaning my ass properly. I excused myself from Alex. After I re-emerged in the bar area, we secured a table and ordered some nitro-pressurized Guinness pints. As the stout settled into a nice creamy head, I looked to Alex. We raised our glasses and took a drink. I paused for a moment, then started: “So, this is what happened back there….”