My daughter has informed me that I am no
longer funny. I suspect she may well be
right. I've been too busy writing grad
papers to go on any big adventures, and nothing particularly funny has happened
to me in the last few days.
Nothing.
At all.
Except portapotties.
Sunday I am at a lacrosse fundraiser with
children #1 and #3 (coincidentally, neither of whom is my daughter). It all starts at 9:30 in the morning, the
last chance I have to use a flush toilet for many hours. Now don't label me, here, folks; I am not a
portapotty snob. However, a few years
ago we attended a similar event at the same location, and all portapotties were
over-full and out of toilet paper before noontime. Couple that background knowledge with the
fact that the girls' lacrosse event has taken place there the day before, and
readers will rightfully conclude that the portapotties are already full and out
of TP before our event even starts.
Someone, a man most probably, has
apparently decided that the best place to line up the portapotties at a
fundraiser is right where the only field entrance is. Perhaps he thinks this makes them accessible
to the players; perhaps he thinks it best if people gather around portapotties
and in front of portapotties like some kind of weird butt-wipers' cult to
watch the games. But the designer of the
portapotties' placement has made two fatal mistakes.
The first fatal mistake is that
portapotties smell. They stink and they
have open-air vents on them, which means the aroma wafts across field #2, our
first field of play, like the rolling lava from Kilauea - thick, putrid, and
causing immediate eye burning.
The second fatal mistake is that there is a
steep embankment leading into the sports complex. Every single portapotty is leaning at an angle
except the one at the bottom; that one is on nearly-level ground. The problem is the other seven are leaning
downhill against it like half-fallen dominoes, the top one teetering at about a
60 degree angle.
TP is going to be a bit of a problem. Oh, if I had my car with me, I could dig into
that roll of paper towels I keep under the seat. But my car is two miles west of the field
because too many spectators took up all the parking on-site, and we have to
leave our vehicles off-site and get shuttled by Big Yellow-Orange School
Bus. Finally, at 2:30 p.m., the first
wave of people head to their cars. The
rest of us suckers run to the shuttle stop like hurdlers at the Olympics: Spots in the lot are now open; game on to
claim them.
The shuttle arrives, and we calmly take
seats near the front … but not too near the front. We want to appear nonchalant. Secretly, though, we are sizing each other up
- Which ones of us will make it back to the venue and park successfully, and
which ones of us will be turned away and forced to re-shuttle back? On the return trip to the parking lot, I
strategically plan my assault. I know
there is a back road that loops around and re-enters the main road about a
block from the site. I also know that I am
racing against some savvy sports parents who've parked at hundreds of different
venues over the years.
Here's where my penchant for being
too-friendly comes into play. I start
chatting up a seemingly nice Yuppie couple and discover that we are both
returning for the last game on field #4, they for the enemy. I start bemoaning the fact that it's starting
to get really, really, really cold,
and how it is still almost an hour until the game between our two teams
commences. By the time we're done
chatting, we are not only old pals, but I have subliminally convinced them to
stop at Dunkins for hot coffee on their way back.
Score: 1 for me; 0 for the enemy.
Then the second great thing happens: It starts to rain.
Rain
is good. It means some of the spectators
who are less invested in this whole event (grandparents, uncles, and
disinterested girlfriends) will get into their cars, turn on their defrosters,
and drive away. For the remainder of us
suckers, though, rain blows. It means
dampened clothing, dampened equipment, and dampened spirits. We arrive at the stallite lot in time for the
rain to start in earnest, and we all rip to our vehicles like it's the start of
NASCAR, engines roaring, tires squealing, and the shuttle bus leading us like a
pace car back to the sports complex. I
know Mr. and Mrs. Hot Coffee will not make it back before I do. Life is good; life is happy; life is all
about getting that coveted spot.
Until … until … until I see McDonalds. Yes, you heard me, I see a Mickey D's, and it
rises like a golden-arched sentinel, beckoning me in with its warm bathroom and
fauceted sinks and flushable plumbing and plush toilet paper. It's even at a light, so access to and from
is easy, oh … so … easy.
Remember, now, I haven't peed since 9:30
a.m.
I look into my rearview mirror just as I
get ready to change lanes to make the traffic light when I suddenly swerve back
into my original lane. I am the first
car in line behind the shuttle, the first one who will make it back to grab the
best spot. I see the line of cars and
luxury SUV's behind me and calculate that since each one is following me
following the bus, they must all be spot-seekers.
In that moment, in that fraction of time,
in that very split second, I decide that I will have to use the portapotty if I
have any intention of being within miles of my own car. Besides, I don't have to pee that badly. It's not like the constant dribble of the
soaking wet raindrops across my windshield is making me think of peeing or
anything like that.
By the time I make the two-mile drive down the
road and immediately pass by my only hope of a flush toilet for the next few
hours, I say my parting words to tiled luxury and head back for Portapotty
Mania because all this thinking about not peeing has made me have to pee. Badly.
Anyone who has ever attended an event with
portapotties knows that there is a certain science combined with sheer
casino-style luck in finding a loo that isn't too horrid. Knowing that each and every one is already full
of waste (this scientific data is derived from the faces and rapid exits of
anyone going near the contraptions), I decide that my best bet is to wager on a
portapotty that isn't going to fall over while I'm inside of it. The top-most one has begun to list even
farther, and it is tilted at a horrific 45 degrees and looks very much like the
Titanic right before its final plunge into the deep. The last one in line, the one standing
upright, is now bearing the full weight of the others that are bending toward
it. I decide that if they all tip, I
will be covered in waves of human excrement the likes of which have probably
never been seen before. I notice that
one portapotty at dead-center is flashing the green Potty is open for business handle.
I take a breath, but not a deep one because it stinks already, and make
my way inside.
Men, I know you have to sort of look down
to at least hope you're not pissing on yourselves. Women have a worse dilemma. We must look down to make sure there aren't
any surprises awaiting us when we sit or squat to hit the jackpot. I glance to make sure the coast is as clear
as it can be and grab sight of the nearly overflowing piles of excrement. And there on the top of the pile, like a
Christmas present from Mr. Hanky himself, is the largest, longest, most hideous
dookie I have ever seen in my entire life.
I am momentarily stunned. I also wonder what on earth it might be that
whoever laid that thing had for breakfast and how on earth they can still be
walking around when they clearly left a large cross-section of their colon in
the portapotty. This thought still nags
at me as I do my business, grab tissues from my pocket, and pray that the
forty-five seconds that I have spent in there haven't maimed me for life.
The worst part about using a portapotty is
that no matter how far away you get, no matter how fast you run, no matter how
much hand sanitizer and hair spray you use, that stench stays up your nose for
days, and not because you inhaled while in or near the damn thing, but because
the smell permeates boundaries and membranes that no other life force, alien
nor domestic, can penetrate. It's the
main scientific property of portapotties - the aroma will enter your eyes,
ears, nose, and mouth, and it will infiltrate your defenses with a stronghold
that rivals the plague.
The first thing I do when I get home is pee
in the toilet. The second thing I do is
flush. The third thing I do is
shower. The last thing I do is run a
load of laundry.
So, daughter, I may not be funny all the
time (except looking), but I will say this:
I did get a primo parking space, I did manage to quell some of the
stench by standing in the rain for an hour and a half after I peed, and it truly
was a big adventure. But, and this is a
huge but, the next time I hear someone
say their weekend was "the shit," I just might have to introduce that
person to Mr. Dookie.
