Fifteen years ago, I was given my first big work project. It wouldn't be big for me now, but back then it was. Three years previous I had qualified as a master bricklayer and immediately set myself up as self-employed. I scratched around for small projects and finally got to know a contractor who ensured I needn't worry where the next paycheck was coming from. It was he who offered me my first chance as site manager.
"Got an extension for you, Kiddo. I want you to run the whole show from start to finish. Starts Monday. You up to it?"
"Yeah, sure."
He handed me the plans to study over the weekend. "Site meeting at eight AM Monday morning. Be there and know your shit."
I spent the entire weekend studying, researching, learning my shit. This was my chance and I wasn't going to foul it up. Sure, I was in a bit over my head. I knew little of other trades at the time. But so what? I would learn as I went along.
Monday morning was cold, well below zero. A light dusting of snow had fallen overnight. My van was frozen up and the roads would be slow, so I decided to forgo my usual morning purge to ensure I wouldn't be late for the meeting. That was mistake number one.
I arrived at the job half an hour early, rolled a smoke, opened up my flask for coffee to drink whilst I had a scout around the property. This was mistake number two. My normal morning routine is coffee, smoke, shit, and work. The first two encourage the third, which enables a trouble-free fourth, but eagerness to begin work before the coffee and smoke had fucked things up. Now I was at work, puffed, slurped, and in dire need to splash, and in ten minutes I was to meet with the contractor, architect, and client.
The property was empty, so I couldn't get in. I could possibly have waited for the client to turn up with the key, but the job was to demolish the bathroom and then rebuild with another storey on top; I wasn't going to grab the key, rush in, and defile the very place we would hold our meeting, I mean, it wouldn't be polite, would it? So I looked for other options.
At the back of the garden was a field with some bushes about thirty yards away. I figured that was the place to conduct business. I returned to the van and grabbed a shovel and an old newspaper, which I wrapped in the architect's drawings so I could pretend to anyone watching from neighbouring properties that I was studying the plans and taking a long-range look at the lay of the land whilst sneaking my way to the back fence.
I reached the fence with no sign of curtains twitching. Very aware of the need for speed, I reached behind myself, put one hand on the fence, clenched my buttocks, and leapt over -- right into the path a woman walking her dog. She was more than a little shocked to see me appear from thin air. I quickly apologised for spooking her, looked at my plans, paced off a few yards into the field, scratched at the ground, tutted, shook my head, muttered about drainage, and jumped back into the garden.
By this time the need to empty myself had become quite disturbing. I had about three minutes in which to do it.
Panic was beginning to set in. My thought process was becoming scrambled. I had to shit -- it would only take a few seconds, if only I had somewhere to do it.
Then I spotted the shed. To be exact, I spotted the gap between the shed and the wall that separated the neighbouring gardens. It would be awkward: the wall was falling to pieces, so I would have to be careful, and I would also be virtually upright; but at least no neighbours would see me. So I squeezed into the gap, loosened my belt, dropped my jeans, had a final look around, and saw the canoe.
It was behind the shed in an old junk area that was hidden from the garden by some wicker fencing and conifer trees. From this side I could see the overgrown archway cut into the conifers. To this day, I still don't know what possessed me -- it may have been the vile yellow paint job, it may have been for the crown of King Shit (which I held until the previous King, Chris, reclaimed by shitting into an empty Pringles tub and putting it back on the shop shelf); whatever the reason, I just couldn't resist clenching up and waddling over, squatting down, and unfurling myself into the canoe.
Under normal circumstances, it would have been a most satisfying shit -- nothing big or clever, no bells or whistles, no noise, no splatter, a damned offensive stench (it's out of water -- of course it's going to kick a bit). All in all, these circumstances made it pretty much the perfect shit. I took a quick admiring glance at my handiwork, had a quick clean-up with the newspaper, and rushed 'round to the front of the house to meet the client.
I had done it. The crisis was over. The meeting only took ten minutes; now we were in the kitchen, chatting about the weather. I was feeling rather smug with myself. I would give the chugnut an hour to freeze, and then pick it up and dispose of it properly.
It was then the client asked us if we could take a look at the wall by the shed, as he was worried it might fall down on someone. I tried to lead them up the side of the shed, but the client insisted we walk through the archway.
As soon as we passed through, I could see the steam still rising from the canoe. I stood next to the opening and glanced down at my perfect ginger banana neatly adorned with remnants of Friday's paper. It was only a matter of time before someone else spotted it -- I mean, how long can someone stand next to an unfettered turd and not know it's there?
So I did the only thing I could think of. "Hey, nice canoe," I said whilst lifting one end up and inspecting the bottom until I until I heard my little ginger friend slide down and softly whumph against the other end; and that's where it stayed.
I still have visions of the fellow cruising down the river one day, cresting a small wave, and my furry banana sliding down between his legs.