What to do, what to do!? School had been let out at 3:00 o’clock, and now, 20 minutes later, I really needed to go to the bathroom. I needed a Number 2. Or, as my mom always said, I needed a “bowel movement,” or a “BM”. The problem was, I didn’t have anywhere I could go, and I couldn’t wait much longer! The school bus wouldn’t arrive for almost an hour, and then there would be another half hour before it let me off at my bus stop.
My friends had signed up for football practice, but I hadn’t. I was a small, skinny kid who was afraid of footballs, at least afraid of the way the bigger boys threw them, hard and fast. I knew I couldn’t really compete with them, so I didn’t. So, I was alone, and a long way from home — even if I could wait until the school bus arrived. There weren’t any stores or gas stations around with public restrooms, and Mr. Johnson, the school custodian — we called him Mr. Grumpy — wouldn’t let any kids back into the school after dismissal. The high school was just a block away, but off limits to us elementary school kids. I was stuck. And I really needed to go. Bad. There was no way I could wait for the school bus, much less endure the ride home. But I didn’t know how I could avoid just going in my pants, either.
I certainly didn’t want to go in my pants, not again. When I was much younger, but long after being potty trained, I was playing outside and did go in my pants. I went inside, and climbed up on a kitchen counter to watch my mom making an apple pie, although the mess in my pants certainly took most of my attention. Mom soon realized that what she was smelling wasn’t just boiled apples and cinnamon.
Beyond mom’s discovery that I had pooped my pants, I have no memory of the incident. I don’t know if she scolded me, or lectured me, or punished me in any way. Nor do remember her cleaning me up, although I’m sure she did. Overall, it doesn’t seem to have been a negative experience, and almost certainly was a enjoyable despite the taboo — is there anyone, really, who wouldn’t enjoy a warm pile of poop pressing against their bum? But now, several years later, I desperately needed to poop. Even though I had done it in my pants once, I sure didn’t want to do it again, or ever, really. That was something that only babies and very young children did, and that was not only forgivable but to be expected. But now I was several years older, and wouldn’t be forgiven if I pooped in my pants. I had to find somewhere else to go. And then I remembered that just a couple of blocks away from my school, on a quiet side street, there was an old, small wooden building, divided into what was probably a storage shed on the left and a garage on right, with a large sliding door.
I had walked past that building several times, going to a friend’s house — one of my football-playing friends — to play while I waited for the bus; his mom was probably at home, but I’d would have been way too embarrassed to knock on their door and ask if I could use their bathroom. But now the old building had come into the picture. I’d never paid much attention to it, but I did now.
The building must have dated back to the 1920s — the garage-half of it was certainly too small for the big new automobiles of the 1950s. It was empty save for a few old garden tools and an empty oil barrel. It was set back a few feet from the street, right across from an empty lot, and around the corner from the house it belonged to. The sliding door was open. Although the day was bright and sunny the inside of the garage was deep in shadow, especially at the back. It was certainly the best choice — apparently my only choice — for solving my predicament, which was growing worse by the moment. If I didn’t have a “BM” soon, I would have a much bigger problem that would be very hard to explain to the bus driver, to the other kids on the bus, and to my mom! I headed for the garage, not quite running, thinking only of relief, afraid that I would be too late.
It must have been years since anyone had been in that garage. This part of town was quiet, with only an occasional car going by on a nearby street. Inside the garage it was dead quiet, and smelled lightly of old motor oil. The wood-planked floor was covered with light dust which rose around my feet as I hurried deep into a corner at the back. I turned to face the open front of the garage, hoping that a curious passerby wouldn’t spot me. It was warm and still — millions of dust motes drifted in the dead air.
I quickly lowered my jeans and then my Jockey shorts to my ankles, got into a half-squat without a moment to spare, supported myself against the back wall, and pushed. No, not pushed. Relaxed.
My back opening opened (I don’t think I even knew the words “anus” or even “asshole”) and a long, large, semi-soft brown turd plopped into the dust on the floor, and then a couple of smaller ones, accompanied by a brief stream of urine which splashed rather noisily into the dust and created little lakes and rivulets that threatened to wet my shoes, but didn’t. (I had taken care to aim my penis — I’m not sure I knew that word, either — so it wouldn’t wet my underwear or jeans. Pungent odours almost immediately spread through the garage.
I stood up and shook my penis dry. I don’t remember worrying about whether I was clean “down there”. I may have wiped myself with a stick or something; we couldn’t afford kleenex in those days, and I wouldn’t have dared to use a hanky. Did I worry about a “skid mark” in my Jockeys? I don’t think so. I pulled my shorts and jeans up, zipped up, fastened my belt with its fancy “Western” buckle, and carefully stepped away from the mess I had made.
I briefly examined my turds. The word “feces” hadn’t come into my vocabulary yet, and I was leery about that other word that my friends used so often, and which was forbidden in my house: “s_ _t”. But I was almost all too familiar with “turd”: I was named after my father and grandfather, both named James; my grandmother, who we often visited, was fond of calling me “Jimmy d’ Turd,” much to my embarrassment.
Anyway, my turds were moist, the biggest one a bit lumpy at the “head” and tapering to a smooth rounded “tail”. The smaller ones were smooth and tapered almost to a point at each end. A couple of houseflies had already settled on them. The puddles of pee were soaking into the dust, and were soon gone, leaving behind damp patches and meandering runnels.
So, there I was, rather proud of what I had done, and done rather successfully, I thought. No one had seen me, I felt a lot more comfortable, and I was leaving behind a sign of my success. Is there anyone alive who won’t admit, deep down, that a good poop is always something to be proud of? Especially if you’ve gotten away with it “in public”?
I walked back into the light and headed toward the bus stop, where I could wait without fear that I would mess my pants.
* * *
A couple of years later, my family moved into a large, old duplex that was almost across the street from that old garage. At my first opportunity, I went back into the garage, not to poop but to see the if there was still evidence that I had pooped there. My turds were gone. There wasn’t a sign of them. I could still see my old footprints in dust, softened by time and wind and new dust. But the turds just weren’t there. I’m sure that no human removed them. They’d probably been consumed by insects, and probably by maggots that hatched from eggs laid in my turds by the flies.
I have often wondered if that early public pooping experience in the old garage was partly responsible for the development of the poop fetish that I began to enjoy on a regular basis early in my teens. Pooping in that old garage provided not just physical release, but must have been downright thrilling. As I squatted in that old garage, I must have felt not just a strong surge of adrenalin, but of endorphins too, those “feel good” hormones that make sex so enjoyable, not to mention my understanding that I crossed over that boundary between “proper” and “improper” behaviour. My “oh-so-proper” parents would have been scandalized and perhaps even disappointed in me, but to me, that necessary “public poop” was almost certainly one of my first steps towards independence.
Now, several decades later, the need to poop can lead me — always leads me, in fact — straight to planning how to best fill my pants with poop. Of course, often it’s impossible to do that. But when circumstances permit, I almost always poop and pee in my pants rather than in a toilet, often in public, and often recall with fond memories of that dusty old garage.