The only place to eat along the way was at the local flea market, so that made the decision an easy one. Erik ordered a bacon biscuit with chocolate milk and I got my biscuit as well. I noticed that the biscuits were really buttery and greasy, and I warned him that maybe we shouldn't eat them. "It's alright, Dad, mine tastes good."
We finished up and down the road we went. Got to the catfish pond, where we had to cross a way-too-narrow bridge and drive up and through the muddy ruts in the woods to meander down to the banks. This would not be possible in our new Sienna van if Mom had been along, but hey, just us guys... We unpacked, set up the gear, and got settled in for several hours of fun. In all, it must have taken fifteen minutes to fine-tune the arrangements for maximum comfort.
Hooks in the water, got a nibble, got a bite, and Erik says, "Dad, I gotta go." So I said, thinking he just had to piss, "No problem, there's woods all around. Go up into the tree line and do your business." He walked in circles for a minute and said again that he had to go. I asked him why he was still here if he had to go so badly and he said he had to do number two.
Well, I had the handy dandy roll o' toilet paper -- but no, he just HAD to sit on a toilet. What if someone saw him squatting?
The port-a-johns were across the pond, which meant back up through the woods and over the bridge after packing up all the gear that I had so meticulously arranged. Dammit. I began to do the short version of loading it up and he began to do The Dance. "I've really gotta go bad!" There was a new urgency in his words. Dammit all to hell.
Van loaded, up into the woods, and again: "I really, really, gotta go bad!"
"We are going, and it is bad," I replied. "All this effort for you to sit on the can when you could have just gone into the woods." He quit fussing about having to go. But when we got to the port-a-johns, he was walking funny, like a crab. I asked him why the weird walk, and of course he said he had done it in his pants. Just friggin' great.
When I helped him with his pants the smell struck me full up the nose. I gagged and nearly puked on him. It was so bad I had to prop the door open with the only thing I could find nearby: a trashcan swarming with bees. He had a veritable cesspool in his underwear, and there was no way in hell I was cleaning that. I took my knife, cut his shitty sailcloth off, and flung it into the trashcan.
Well, the bees had tolerated being moved, but when the shit rag hit 'em they got pissed. Erik still had his pants down but was cleaned up by then, thankfully, while I was getting stung and doing the swat dance in the john while crouching over him. I finally snatched him up and ran out to the van with him ass naked and jumped in. He wasn't stung; and my stings weren't too bad. The other people who were waiting for the john got a pretty good laugh out of it, even though someone had to move the shitty bee can.
Needless to say, the fishing trip was a done deal.
Every once in a while I ask him if he wants to go fishing. I'm kinda glad he doesn't.