When I was a younger man, normally I could only afford two-star hotels. Occasionally a three-star. As a consequence, these hotels often failed my screening process in at least one category. This is one of those experiences.
My story begins in the beautiful island nation of Jamaica, circa 1984 or thereabouts. I was single at the time and traveling with a group of friends. We were all in our early twenties and on a package deal. I must say the hotel we stayed in was very clean and cheerful, but -- as I've found to be the case with most Caribbean island -- the water pressure was not what I was accustomed to. The beer was pretty good, though.
There were eight of us -- five guys and three girls. Since none of us were coupled, the girls shared a single room and the guys had two rooms between them. I paired up with my buddy Matt. After check-in, we immediately went up to our respective rooms to unpack, with plans to meet in half an hour.
A side note about my roommate Matt: he's one of those guys who enjoys making himself the butt of jokes. Very good-natured and self-effacing, he never gets offended or embarrassed. Whenever we travel with Matt, there's always a poo incident. Never fails. It doesn't bother him at all when we rib him about it. In fact, he rather enjoys the attention. It's for this reason I was able to use him as a scapegoat, as you will soon see.
Once inside our room, I went through my usual screening process as Matt unpacked his things. After my inspection of the sleeping area, it came time to check the crapper. I had not gone to the bathroom in over twenty-four hours, and was naturally worried to be in unfamiliar surroundings. I brought with me an eight-pack of Charmin from home and put down a few rolls by the toilet. This has always been an essential whenever I travel. I pulled the handle of the commode and stood there, watching with dismay as a pathetic trickle of water (barely a glassful) cascaded from the tank into the bowl.
I don't know a whole lot about toilets, but I've come to realize that there are two essential elements at work here: gravity and water. Both of which our world seems to have in abundance. And so I can't understand how such a simple process can have such an alarmingly high failure rate. One would think that in an era of computerization we could come up with some improvements to this age-old issue. One that has barely evolved since our forebears backed their hairy butts to the edge of a pond and said, "cheese."
These and other thoughts began to unravel in my head as I went to yellow alert. Years later I would discover Serotonin-Reuptake Inhibitors. But back in 1984 I still had to figure out the world around me in my own special way. And unlike Matt, for whom a bowel movement was a great source of pride, I considered it a nerve-shattering experience.
As Matt casually dumped the contents of his suitcase in the corner of the room, I made my first panic call to the clerk at the front desk. I tried my best to explain my dilemma without sounding crazed. I found the clerk's accent difficult to understand. Having been in Jamaica for less than a day, I still had not gotten used to the island patois. Either she said, "Okay, mon, I'll send up the super" or, "I'm going to slit your throat later." I couldn't be sure.
About fifteen minutes later we all met in the lobby and decided to take a stroll through town. I tried to get the potty crisis out of my mind and enjoy myself. Soon I found myself buying useless souvenirs with the rest of the group. Twenty years ago, Montego Bay was a different experience for tourists. Back then the local vendors were still allowed to set up their wares along the streets and piers. They would call out to anyone who looked like a tourist and try to bargain with them. At first it could be a bit intimidating, and many visitors were clearly annoyed by this. But my friends and I quickly got used to it and started to have some fun. Years later, when I returned to Jamaica, I found the street vendors were all confined to the market areas away from the hotels. There must have been too many complaints. The experience just wasn't the same.
It was our first night in Jamaica and so we decided to splurge at a waterfront restaurant, sampling some of the local cuisine. I don't remember exactly what I ate, but a lot of it was unfamiliar. Normally, I would have steered clear of anything I couldn't identify. But since we had been drinking heavily already, I decided to go along with the crowd. I do recall one of the items I ate was conch soup. Diced sea slug in a rich, creamy stock. Mmmm. Mmmm. Nothing more refreshing on a warm, muggy evening. The thought of it now makes my toes curl.
Later that evening everyone decided to do their own thing. Matt and I went back into town alone to look for some action. It's a little hazy trying to recall everything now, but I know we were consuming serious amounts of alcohol. I recall spending some time at a nightclub and later a few bars. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, the snails and other bottom-feeders in my entrails were starting to ooze up the works.
Hours later, while walking the streets looking for our hotel, a local prostitute joined us and tried to barter her wares. She was attractive, and kindly offered to show us the way back. As we walked, I felt her slip her hand into my back pocket and try to swipe my wallet. She apparently never came across anyone with serious OCD. I'm not a cheapskate or anything, but I tend to obsess about where my wallet is at all times. I could be in a coma and you'd still have to pry it free from my fingers. This time, being somewhat inebriated, I wasn't as angry with her as I could have been. I probably shrugged it off as a local custom or something. So I gently scolded her by wagging my index finger. She merely smiled at me and continued to walk with us, telling us about her many talents and how much it would cost.
Along the way, I suddenly had that sinking sensation. Every part of me started to tingle and I began to sweat profusely. Then came that familiar sensation in my bowels, as if a dam had burst. The cramps came quickly and with great anger. Beads of sweat ran down my forehead and my heart began to palpitate wildly. I calmed myself as best I could and refused to panic. What's the worst that could happen? I'd crap my pants and be forced to hide in my room for the rest of the vacation.
Meanwhile Matt, oblivious to my crisis, was having fun with the girl, bargaining with her already low prices. By the time we got near our hotel, he had talked her down to $1.00 Jamaican, which equated to about thirty cents American. Normally I would have found this amusing, except the sewage ejector pump had now fully engaged and I had no more patience for fun and games. I knew I was in serious trouble and found myself puckering up and doing the dookie dance as we walked.
"Your friend does not look so good, mon."
"Excuse me, I gotta run," I said as I fast-walked across the street toward my hotel, which was still a few blocks away. I heard Matt and the girl laughing at my distress. I didn't care at this point. I knew with certainty that if I didn't get to the potty soon, this would mess with my head for years to come. And so off I waddled like a fat chick to the buffet line. For some reason, Matt stayed behind. I never did ask him why.
By the time I was a block from the hotel, I knew the clock was ticking down fast. This was definitely going to be a close call. I picked up my pace and did the butt-pucker-shuffle up the exterior staircase and toward my room. As I fumbled for the keys, my bowels were spasming wildly. As always, they somehow knew we were close and were getting overly excited. By now I had reached critical mass. As I stumbled into the john and dropped my shorts, I knew I was about to seriously sludge up the slop jar. And this was not going to be an easy one either. I sensed there was at least fifteen feet of colon filled with runny, phlegmy potty-sauce.
I relaxed my sphincter and allowed nature to take its course. Nothing happened but a long, wet fart. It was then I realized there was a butt-plug at least a foot long stopping up the works. This one was definitely going to require some skill. You have to know the exact moment to stop pushing and quickly reverse gears, or else.
By now I was in serious pain, so I gritted my teeth, hunkered down and squeezed like a hungry anaconda. The plug was mucky and thick. As I un-puckered my cheeks and pushed, it felt like I was squeezing thick butter-cream frosting from a pastry bag. With a hand-mirror and a little practice I could have probably made those little chocolate rosettes used to decorate cakes. But now was clearly not the time.
For about two minutes I continued to fill the bowl with colon pasta. It pumped out like Play-Doh through a fun-factory. Then the plug came to a sudden end. Unfortunately, I didn't reverse gears fast enough. The explosion that followed was epic. Copious blasts of potty sauce sprayed through my dookie-hole onto the pasta pile below. At the same time, pockets of ass-gas propelled each burst like shrapnel. Fwoom, fwoom, fwoom.
Normally I would have expected my butt to be showered from splashdown. But there was simply not enough water and too much dooki. Clearly H20 is a rare and safeguarded treasure in this island nation of the Caribbean.
The final two or three encores were basically anti-climactic. Afterward, I sat there on the throne for a few minutes, recovering. By this time the death cloud had fully enveloped me. Fortunately, I'm immune to my own stench. If other people had been nearby, bodies would be piling up around me. I wiped my butt using the roll of Charmin I brought from home.
Even in my inebriated state, I knew I still had a big problem on my hands. Now I had to deal with the issue. I've heard the expression "Hope springs eternal." Clearly I had this thought in mind when I bravely pulled down the flusher, closed my eyes, and wished with all my heart. But a miracle was not to be had. Instead, ten ounces of warm water gently cascaded over the top of my dooky-pile and just settled there like milk on pudding.
By now it was 3:00 in the morning and there was no way I was going to deal with this any further. So I closed the lid, shut the bathroom door, and went to bed. Fifteen minutes later, as I was on the verge of sleep, Matt stumbled into the room. I debated on whether or not to warn him about the toilet. But he was clearly on a mission and had no time to talk anyway. Before I knew it he slammed the bathroom door behind him and was sitting on the pot in the dark, making his own contribution to the pile.
I won't go into too much detail, but it sounded pretty fierce in there. Like a monster truck stuck in the mud, spinning its wheels at full throttle. Five minutes later, all was still. Then I heard a pathetic flush and the sound of Matt's voice, clearly confused. A moment later the bathroom light went on.
"Oh, mannnnn."
I realize I should have said something at this point, and I'm not sure exactly why I didn't. But that's what happened and I have to live with it. Years later I actually did confess to Matt. But not that night. Instead, I curled up into a sound and restful sleep, knowing I was in the clear.
The next morning I woke up to find Matt sitting at the end of his bed, clearly troubled. "Man, you wouldn't believe what I did in there last night."
"Huh? What?"
"Go check the toilet," he said.
"That's really not necessary. I heard the whole thing last night. Sounded nasty." There was no way I was going to look at that mess. "Any way to get it down?" I asked innocently.
Matt's not the sharpest tool in the shed, but he came up with a few possibilities. One was to find a hardware store and hope they had some of that blue chemical used in portable toilets to dissolve butt-muck. Not very likely, but good thinking. Another idea was to simply fill the bowl with hot water from the sink in hopes the mass would slowly dissolve. Then pray that gravity did its thing.
As we formulated a plan, we were interrupted by our friend Bob banging on our door. "Open up." I figured the best way to deflect any suspicion away from me was to get Bob immediately involved. He's the big mouth of the group. I quickly apprised Bob of the situation, feigning total innocence. He made a few phone calls and a half hour later we met the rest of our companions in the outdoor breakfast area, just outside the lobby. They all looked hung over. As I had hoped, Bob took center stage at this point.
"You wouldn't believe what Matt left in the toilet in his room."
Everyone, including the girls, were well aware of Matt's toilet exploits. They all sobered up immediately. This was going to be good.
"Remember that John Carpenter movie a few years ago? The Thing. That about describes what I saw crawling out of the bowl." Bob was on a roll, and everyone was laughing. Including me.
"There was NO WAY this beast was going down," Bob continued. "We had to call the front desk to send up a maintenance man. I'd hate to be in his shoes. He'd better bring a shovel and a gun."
I shamelessly played into this charade, laughing and poking fun at Matt with the rest of the frenzied mob. "Matt, how could you?" "How disgusting." "We can't take you anywhere." "Poor Poopster39."
Matt was in his glory, so I didn't feel too guilty about the deceit. Fifteen minutes later, as we ate breakfast, the building maintenance guy walked into the lobby. He saw us and strode up to our table, clearly annoyed.
"Who did dat terrible ting?" He scolded us in his thick Jamaican patois.
We all pointed to Matt, who gave a guilty smile.
The poor man shook his head. "You choke de bowl, mon."
We laughed for years over that expression.