I was in an anonymous southern airport waiting to board a westbound plane for a three-day conference in Colorado. I am one to keep to myself, especially in airports, and I usually bide my time by reading a magazine, playing sudoku, or going over work stuff. I sometimes like to arrive a little earlier than necessary, as it gives me some quiet time -- something I cannot always get at home.
During this particular wait, there were few seats available at the gate, so I had to seat myself next to a group of rowdy high school kids who seemed preoccupied with making fun of just about everyone who was different from them. No one was immune from their taunts -- especially not if you were fat, or skinny, or tall, or short, or bald, or hairy. I gathered up the nerve to assert myself and confront them so that they could be quiet. As I was mentally choosing my words and solidifying a possible argument, I noticed that one of them had stopped making fun and was squirming and fidgeting in his seat. His face was red and glistening and I wondered if he was going to be sick. Without warning, he rose from his seat and walked very quickly up the concourse to the bathrooms.
Of course, his "friends" took note of this and made fun of his gait, surmising that he was "gonna take a massive dump."
Five minutes later, the incident forgotten, I thought that I might take a quick whiz prior to boarding. I made my way to the bathroom. And when I went in, I immediately noticed a few unmistakable clumps of human shit on the floor leading to the stall next to the urinals.
I recognized the sneakers on a pair of sockless feet under the stall as the ones belonging to the boy who went to the restroom.
I walked up to the urinal and took a whiz. The only sound coming from the stall was the continuous whir of toilet paper being rolled.
I felt bad for the kid, but I was not sure what to say or do. Being on the legal side of the medical profession, I felt a distant and vague obligation to offer some sort of helping hand. I spoke up and asked the kid if he was okay, or if he needed help (hoping he might say no).
He admitted that he "shit" in his pants, and he didn't know what to do.
We talked about his limited options. He could wash his shorts in the sink, which would require him standing at the sink bottomless. I could consult his friends and see if they had some clothes to offer. I could even wash his shorts for him as he sat in the stall. (I didn't verbalize this offer, and I would have only considered it had he brought the idea up himself; fortunately, that option was not tabled.)
I thought a minute more and came up with the brilliant idea that I could go to the stores in the terminal and see if there were some pants or shorts that I could get for him. He liked that idea, so I inquired about his size and proceeded to go to the souvenir shops. He wanted khaki or camouflage cargo shorts, if I could find some. I told him that I would do my best. He thanked me as I left.
Mind you, this is an airport serving only a modestly-sized southern city. I quickly discovered that the few stores at the terminal had very meager pickings, and only one of them had a selection of below-the-waist garments. The only items I could find that were even remotely close to being outwardly suitable for the boy were pairs of powder-blue (or pink) girl shorts that had offered "Carolina", "Duke", or "NC State" written in bold collegiate letters ostentatiously across the backside.
Since I had a direct flight, I was not carrying extra clothes in my carry-on bag, otherwise I would have given him a pair of my own pants, which probably would have been bad enough. I felt terrible and embarrassed for the kid as I bought these shorts (the "Carolina" ones); but a tiny part of me recognized a crudely base humor in the situation.
I got back to the bathroom as quick as I could. He hadn't gone anywhere. I announced my arrival and told him that I could only find a pair of girl shorts and that maybe he could at least wear them while he washed his shorts in sink. I handed him the shorts from underneath the stall.
There was silence.
Doubtless he was holding this terrifying garment out in front of him and mentally assembling his end-of-life preparations. His voice was alarmingly high-pitched and full of concern as he asked me if I was sure that there was nothing else in the way of pants or shorts available. I confirmed the terrible truth.
He repeatedly told me that he just could not wear these "things". But after a few minutes of discussion, cajoling, and consolation, he decided to don the shorts.
He finally came out of the stall. I don't know how I was able to muster up the inner strength and fortitude to restrain myself from bursting out into uncontrollable laughter, but I was able to retain my composure. Honestly, he looked completely ridiculous. From the waist up, he could have been from an Abercrombie and Fitch advertisement. From the waist down, it was Barnum and Bailey.
He brought his shorts to the sink and proceeded to wash the shit out of them. I wished him luck and turned to leave the restroom. In a childlike, pleading voice, he asked me if I could please just stay with him, and that he didn't want to go back by himself. So I stayed and made small talk with him as he washed.
It was getting dangerously close to the time at which the plane would be boarding, and I told him that he needed to wrap things up at the sink. He wringed the water out of the shorts and held them up. Although the stains were out of them, they still retained a very rank and unmistakably shitty smell -- and they were sopping wet. He put them on over the girl shorts and stretched his shirt down as far as it could go.
I asked him again if he was okay, and attempted to convince him that he would be laughing about it tomorrow. He looked at himself in the mirror and appeared close to tears. He simply barked a single desperate and pitiful word: "Dammit."
We walked towards the entrance. I asked him if he was ready. He pulled his hat down tight over his head. "Let's get this fucking thing over with."
The two-hundred-foot distance from the bathroom to the seats was a formidable obstacle to overcome, amounting to a veritable walk of shame for the boy. Head down, the boy socklessly plodded next to me, leaving a drippy trail. Fortunately no one said anything, and there were only a few errant stares from passer-bys. As we approached his friends, though, they quickly assessed his situation and made sure that everyone was aware of his unfortunate plight. They practically fell to the floor laughing. Most of the other passengers waiting at the gate took notice, but only politely chuckled, smiled, shook their heads, or just merely glanced up from their newspaper.
There was not really much of a spectacle other than a boy with wet shorts, but his friends were just merciless and cruel with their teasing, which continued as we boarded the plane and during the flight; it didn't really end until we reached our destination and I departed their company.
The experience brought to the surface many lessons to be learned. For me, I vowed to always bring a change of pants and underwear in my carry-on bag. For him, I think that he would also carry an extra change of clothes; but I hope the bigger lesson learned was that of humility and empathy toward others in need. Perhaps he even learned more about his so-called friends than he learned about himself.
Of course, the biggest lesson of all is that airport gift shops need to sell men's pants.
