I'm not talking about outhouses or port-a-johns -- I'm talking about the in-the-middle-of-some-field-wiping-with-grass-or-leaves kind of thing.
It all started one day last summer. We were at Reservoir Number Two, our favorite fishing hole. Reservoir Two, in the backwoods half of Peters Township, is a big Army Corps lake that feeds into Waterdam and then Canonsburg lake. Reservoir Two is little known because it can't be seen from the main roads and there are no signs for it. When I was in high school, it was a good place to go party and create havoc and mayhem at night because it is secluded and woodsy. In the summer, Alex and I can usually be found most afternoons on the earthen dam, trying for largemouth bass, yellow bullhead catfish, or yellow perch. We invariably fish until darkness precludes our ability to see what the heck we are doing.
One July afternoon around 5:00, Alex casually comes up to me and asks, "Hey man, what time are we leaving?"
I looked at him like he had a dancing walrus on his head.
"Um, when it gets dark?" I said, still not believing he would have asked such a stupid question.
"Okay, cool, just checking," he said and turned to walk away. He took about four steps, and spun back around. "Because I gotta poop really bad!" he said pleadingly.
"Really?" I asked, smartastically. "Sucks to be you, dude!"
He was apparently hoping I would volunteer to drive him to a toilet. Obviously, this did not happen.
About five minutes passed and he started walking over the hillside.
"Where are you going?" I asked, knowing full well the answer, just wanting to hear him say it.
"To poop."
"I see. Hmmmm... Where you gonna do that?"
"I'm thinking about finding a nice, shady tree," he answered.
"Cool, have fun!"
"Thanks."
"Hey, Spanky, out of curiosity, what are you going to wipe with?" (I just had to know.)
"Well..." He already had it all thought out. "If it's dry, probably nothing. But if I really have to, I'm thinking maybe my socks."
I laughed him out of sight.
He returned a few moments later, walking as if he was lighter than air.
"Everything come out okay?" I asked, grinning.
"Yup."
"How'd the wiping go?"
"Dude, I found these really cool leaves, man. They were all sandpapery..."
(Pausing to regain my composure.)
So this became somewhat of a tradition. Every day we went fishing, not only would he have to poop, but he'd do it beside the same tree, using the same sandpapery leaves. He would tell me if his old poop was still there or not. Maybe it had turned white.
Some days he just couldn't force one out. Then he would mope around dejectedly.
Another time we were fishing on the other side of the lake, on the other dam between the small and large lakes. We were close to the Center Church parking lot. It was getting dark and we were packing up our gear.
"We leaving soon?" he asked.
"About five minutes," I replied.
"I'm gonna poop."
"You can't wait?"
"I don't want to. It's okay, I'm just gonna go here," he said reassuringly.
"There's a port-a-john about thirty feet up the trail towards the lot..." I started.
"I'm just gonna go right here."
"On the trail? Are you nuts? What if someone comes jogging or something?"
"I'll be quick."
"Why don't you use the port-a-john? At least there's paper. There aren't even any leaves here..." But he wasn't listening.
I packed up and found him stuffing fistfuls of long grass down the back of his shorts in a feeble wiping effort.
"Aaaaaaaah!" he yelled as we started walking back to my truck.
"What?" I asked, not really wanting to know the answer.
"Uh, oh... (pause) Oh, thank God."
"What? What's up?" the suspense was driving me crazy.
"Something ran down my leg, and I thought it was some poop, but it was just a blade of grass."
We went camping with Steve and Robin. Hiking a trail up in the Alleghenies, Alex stopped behind a boulder to pinch a loaf. He wouldn't let us take his picture. If he did you could bet your ass it would appear right about...
...here.
So Alex and I are spending an afternoon fishing on the Allegheny River. Nothing is biting, so we spend the time throwing rocks at each other, trying to see who can soak the other one worse from the splashes, or, better yet, make him lose his balance and fall in. A battle I completely won, by the way. So I say I have to poop. Immediately, I am Alex's hero. I go over to a downed tree and build a makeshift seat. By this time, I've even begun to carry around an emergency roll of toilet paper, just for Alex.
Nothing... stage fright.
Of course, it didn't help that Alex was intermittently cheering me on and throwing rocks at me.
Yeah, no thanks. Gimme my Ferguson [1], a full roll of two-ply, some sani-wipes, and my magazine rack. Alex, the woods are all yours.
-- Svendowney