A guy in his early forties burst through the squeaky screen door in obvious panic. He was dressed in biker's gear: tight britches, racing shoes, colorful jersey. Our area is a biker's haven. New England yuppies come from miles around -- especially during the fall -- to test themselves on our hills and treat themselves to the long, winding lane that runs along the eastern bank of the Connecticut River.
"Have you got a restroom?" Lance demanded of George. Locals know that George, along with his wife and teenage daughter, live above the store, but there was no way this interloper was going to be shown upstairs. I've known George for twelve years, and even I don't consider us familiar enough to ask such a favor of him.
When Lance was informed that there was no restroom here, he shifted his body to make it clear he was asking of all of us in line whether we could direct him to the "nearest one." I mentioned a nearby bookstore, but he'd just come from there, and it wasn't open yet. His patience exhausted, Lance backed out of the store, turned around, and took the three stairs down to the sidewalk in one leap. Remarkable, I thought, for a guy needing to shit real bad.
I collected my change and was out of the store about ten feet behind him. His dark blue BMW was idling at the curb, a woman seated in the passenger's seat. Both the way she was looking over her shoulder and the shake of his head as he approached the car made it clear that he was simply the scout; she was the one in need.
She, too, was decked out in biker's gear. However, there was only one bike strapped to the top of the BMW. My guess was that they'd gotten one bike off the rack when it became clear to Lady Lance that there was no way that the Tour de France was going to begin until she'd attended to the Tour de Force. Indeed, that force had expressed itself with such urgency that they'd apparently left the bike leaning against a sugar maple, willing to risk several hundred dollars for an additional minute of search time. This also explained why Lance couldn't give us another few seconds in the store to think where he might go.
I had discovered PoopReport.com only a couple weeks before this episode. For those of you new to this site: you'll soon learn that if the site does its job, you'll find yourself joining "an impressive contingent of loyal PoopReporters -- people whose honor and duty is to do everything they can for the cause." This involves not only searching and sharing your memories for traumas long past, but being willing to report current happenings in microscopic detail. It also means, at times, going out of your way to track down poop stories, wherever they may happen.
Had Lance come barging into the store two weeks earlier, I would have thought nothing of it. But inspired by the stories of Doniker, Dave, The Big Wiper, Daphne, and all the rest of the PoopReport team, I saw the BMW as an ambulance on its way to a gruesome scene -- and myself as a novice beat reporter who could ill afford to let such an opportunity slip by.
I was parked right behind the BMW. As I slid behind the wheel and fired up the engine, two options presented themselves to me: 1) signal Lance and invite him up to my house. The downside of this option was that it probably wouldn't have resulted in that good of a story -- not, at least, without lots of embellishment; and seasoned PoopReporters seem to easily sniff out -- and object to -- such fabrications. 2) Follow the BMW at a safe distance, because it was undoubtedly headed back down to the river and the cover of deep woods. Being a birder, I was well prepared both with a good pair of binoculars in the car and the skills required for inconspicuously observing nervous creatures. This, then, was the story that would launch my career as a PoopReporter.
But I must remind the reader that I live for my morning coffee, paper, and shit. I had no idea how long this assignment would take, and thus there was the real chance that I'd have to forgo my own morning ritual to document this one.
All these thoughts were racing through my mind as I watched in my rearview mirror the BMW make a turn toward the river. You need to understand the sacrifice I was about to make to bring you this story.
I know what you're thinking. "Yeah, OK. But get on with the story, Logjam, because why would you be writing this if you didn't follow the car to witness a desperate sprint through the woods, an awkward crouch, the couple trying to figure out what to use in the absence of toilet paper, and so on?"
In fact, I watched the BMW disappear down the road. And then I drove off in the other direction, back to my home with my paper and coffee. I'm writing this account because, as I reflected upon it, I found it both remarkable and disturbing that I had considered even for a moment following that car. I have not yet found on this site a code of ethics for the PoopReporter, but I think there is a need for one. In my curiosity, novice enthusiasm, and desire to please, I'd almost crossed a line that, at least to me, a good PoopReporter should not cross: I'd nearly become a poop voyeur.
My own poop, incidentally, went well that morning. As usual, I discharged about a pound of poop, in five distinct strands, using about forty sheets of Charmin to clean up, approaching from the side while seated, wiping front to back, looking each time to determine when I was clean enough to flush and run.
As I got in my car and drove to work that morning, I recalled the words of our New England poet, Robert Frost:
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;{...}
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I --
I took the onelessmore traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
-- Logjam [1]