Native Americans Did It
I've moved quite a few times in my life—six to be exact. At first you're excited, then you realize what you're leaving behind and get depressed, then you pretend to play it cool in front of your parents to keep them complacent, and finally you get anxious once you arrive at the new digs. Which room is yours? Who are the neighbors? Are there any kids around that are my age? How can I impress them and fit in? Where did Mom pack all the potential blackmail photos/trinkets/stuffed animals/etc. from my baby years so I can burn, ahem hide, them?
While all of this was running through my mind when I moved for the last time at 14, I knew I had to get accustomed to the new house quick since high school was starting up again soon. Not that I was going to be a sophomore at a different school mind you; I just wanted to maintain some semblance of order in my life and be a normal teenager instead of dealing with all the uprooting, packing, and boxing just to go across town. Compared to the new development house we had moved from, the new house we were moving into was extremely old. I’m talking pre-Civil War era old. As was the case, I had to promptly acquiesce to the layout of the place and some of its quirks. For example, for the first week and a half we lived there I didn't sleep much because the heating pipes at the bottom of every room creaked and banged. It seriously sounded like David the Gnome was having an orgy in our floor ducts with his family and Swift the Fox. This was also the first house I lived in with wooden floors and stairs. Needless to say, we were pretty much able to find each other anywhere in the house by echolocation. Last but certainly not least, as with all old wooden houses, doors tend to expand in warmer weather and can sometimes stick or fail to open at all. I learned this all too well one fateful afternoon.
Since both my parents worked days, I had the house to myself for a good 3-4 hours every afternoon once school got out. As luck would have it, our new house was right near the high school so I was the very first drop off stop. Now I know what you’re thinking and yes I probably could’ve walked (seeing as on the way to school I was the very last stop) but when I was 14 I routinely ate whole pizzas by myself and begged my parents for one of those chairlifts that take you upstairs so you don’t have to walk. Basically, I was a lazy loaf of shit. Anyways, back to the story. So this rather uneventful afternoon I get dropped off and run across the street and see that the driveway is empty meaning the house is my kingdom for a few precious hours. Since we had just moved in I didn’t have my own key yet so my parents and I decided to leave the back door closed but keep it unlocked for this very reason.
You know that hopeless feeling you get when you have to take a shit and all the stalls are occupied except for the last one that hasn’t been flushed with toilet paper hanging off the seat? That’s as close as I can get to explaining the feeling I got when I turned the back doorknob and it only went halfway. Oh no, this can’t be happening. Of course this was before every man, woman, and unborn fetus had a cell phone so I completely freaked out. After the first hour passed I thought I was going to make it. And then the farts started. Not just any farts though; these were those silent but really warm farts that smell like hot garbage and make you sweat profusely. Yep, I had a case of hot trash ass and as any man will attest to, HTA is the precursor of one thing: wet, messy shit. Not good and definitely not attractive. At this point though, with all the doors inaccessible, I was running out of options. With my stomach gurgling and my lower back turning into a sweaty slip n’ slide, I mulled over 3 possible alternatives:
1. Shit in the pool
Pro: 1) It was hot out.
Con: 1) I would have to get totally naked since I had
just come from school and had no bathing suit. 2) There would be floaters
and a shit brown oil slick in our family’s new pool. 3) I would probably
have to use my hands to wipe my ass and/or to clean up the mess because
all we had for the pool was some big net on a stick that the shit would
go right through. Odds: 18-1
2. Shit in the dog's pen
Pro: 1) I could blame it on our two Siberian Huskies.
2) It was semi-secluded so I might get away without being seen.
Con: 1) The dogs would be trying to lick my face the
whole time. 2) They'd probably try and eat the stuff after I was done
because well, they’re dogs and dogs do that sometimes. 3) Our dogs were
part wolf and therefore very rambunctious meaning there was a very good
chance I might get pushed over into my own shit as I was trying to poop.
Odds: 5-1
3. Shit in Mom's garden
Pro: 1) Native Americans did it. 2) I found a roll of
paper towels meaning I now had toilet paper (albeit very rough). 3) Shit
is good fertilizer, right?
Con: 1) Mom would most likely find it the next time she
was gardening and thus tell every living person we know about it. 2) Every.
Living. Person. Odds: 2-1
Now I'm not a betting man and I'm not good in Vegas at all, but I can tell when the odds are in my favor and in this case, the garden won out. I quickly backed all the way into the garden, making sure not to step on any of Mom's fragile flowers. Hiding behind my gigantic L.L. Bean backpack, I pushed my pants around my ankles and squatted around a nice patch of daisies. The HTA delivered on its guarantee and soon enough I was making hot, partially melted soft-serve ice cream amongst the azaleas and tulips. Of course while I'm trying to remain incognito, my ass is defying me and making awful sounds like when you blow bubbles in water or heat chili up and it starts boiling and popping. Thanks anus, you're making this real nice and easy for me.
After doing my business and cleaning myself up, I quickly sprint away from the mess and hide behind our locked shed, waiting for any signs of movement to see if anyone saw me or was watching. Content with the fact I was a master at stealth shitting, I went about trying to find a way to get inside the house again. I tried each door and went around to each window I could find, only to be met with stiff, unforgiving resistance. As a last resort I jumped and partially pulled myself up to the window next to our fireplace. Pushing as hard as my flabby 14 year old muscles could, I managed to open it about two inches before I could no longer hold myself up and had to drop back down to the ground. After repeating this process a good 3 to 4 more times, I was satisfied that I could probably squeeze through.
Pacing back across the lawn I turned and sprinted as fast as I could (a moderate jog to anyone else) and ran up the wall and jumped to reach the windowsill. With my feet scrambling for traction I was able to just barely get my arms and head through the opening. From that point I was able to wriggle back and forth and inch by inch work my body up and over the ledge. What I failed to realize however, was that there's an equal sized drop on the other side of the window (inside the house) and it's all brick considering it's next to the fireplace. Like any idiot I put my hands out thinking I could duck and roll across the bricks and onto the carpet. I guess you could say I did that if by "duck and roll" you mean come crashing down into a pseudo-handstand and then crumple over onto your back while trying to catch your breath.
Covered in sweat, windowsill grime, and brick dust I stood up, brushed myself off, and headed right for the shower. As I was getting out I heard my Mom unlock the front door and step inside. I calmly explained to her that I'd been locked outside for the past 4 hours and managed to get back inside through the fireplace window. Staring at me blankly for a second she asked me why I didn't try the back door like we discussed and it took all my strength to answer her in a composed manner without letting her know I defecated in her prized garden. I explained to her that I wasn’t able to open it because it was stuck, at which point she walked over to the door only to turn and laugh while admitting, "Whoops, guess your father forgot to unlock it today." After doing so she opened the door and remarked, "See? It works fine. It doesn't stick!"
Thanks for playing Mom, keep it up. I didn't even care that I took the shit by this point so it didn't faze me the next day when she came running into the house bewildered and upset. "Andy! Someone shit my garden and it's all over the place!" she exclaimed while holding her trowel and hand rake. Reluctantly I decided to tell her the whole story of what happened the previous afternoon as her jaw dropped while looking at me like one of my eyes just rolled out of my head. "You shit in my garden? That was your shit?" I couldn’t help but laugh as she peppered me with question after question about it. By the end of our little impromptu therapy session she was so stunned she was laughing right along side me. As I predicted she told every person we know and all my friends still give me a hard time about it but whatever, when you have to shit, you have to shit. At least now all of you know the story instead of hearing it from my Mom.
