the floater

I awoke in a daze, unsure of my surroundings. There were pink lacy curtains on the windows. I didn't have pink lacy curtains on my windows. My bedroom didn't even have windows. A princess canopy bed sat in the corner of the room. I was on the floor, zipped into an old flannel sleeping bag with the stuffing leaking out of it. My friend Sue was asleep in her bed. That's right, I remembered, I had slept over Sue's. We had stayed up late talking about eighth grade boys and our periods. As I became more oriented, a sharp tension tightened its grip on my lower stomach.

I had to go lo lo.

Lo lo was the term Mom used for what other mothers referred to as poo poo, ca ca, dumps, or, from the better bred mothers - number two. For some reason, Mom made it understood that we were not to go lo lo in public. She had an almost psychotic aversion to public bathrooms.I was somewhat confused by this phobia. This was the same woman who, when I was little, stripped my underwear off from under my sundress and suspended me in the air between two parked cars and told me to make peeps. This was also the same woman who advised me to squat in the surf of Rockaway Beach and pull my bathing suit to the side before doing wee wee. A few minutes later, she shouted a reminder that I was not to drink the sea water.

Realizing it wasn't always possible to conduct all bathroom business in the comfort of our own home, (or in the sea or between parked cars), Mom taught us the hover maneuver. This technique required enormous strength in the thigh muscles. You straddle the toilet seat without sitting, letting your hiney hover above the toilet rim. Then, you let go a strong quick stream of urine, assuring no skin contact with the toilet. Lo lo was reserved for home. Or else. I didn't know what the consequences of skin-toilet contact or lo lo in public would constitute, but I wasn't going to find out.

I was now, however, no where near home or the beach or a parked car. And I had to go. Bad. The zipper on the sleeping bag sounded like cracking nuts as I tugged it slowly down. Tiptoeing to the door, I checked to make sure that Sue was still asleep. I wanted no witnesses to my shame.
The house was dark and quiet. The sun was just beginning to peek through the curtains. I snuck into the bathroom and locked the door behind me.

I sat down quickly on the toilet seat. My body was tense, my fists were clenched, and sweat dripped down my back. My eyes squinted shut and my face reddened with the strain of pushing. It was over in an instant. My body relaxed with relief. I wiped and pulled my pajama bottoms back up. Looking down into the toilet bowl, I was impressed. There was a single, large turd floating on the surface. I flushed it down and washed my hands at the sink.

While drying my hands on a cream-colored towel, I looked down at the bowl in confusion. The turd was still floating there. I flushed again. Although the water drained from the bowl and began to refill, the turd was stoic in its stubbornness. I flushed again. And again. And again. No movement from the bowel movement. I was sweating in earnest now, my pajamas damp and clingy.

I could not leave the turd in the bowl. Everyone would know that it was me. Sue's parents used the bathroom attached to their bedroom, and Sue had no brothers, sisters or even dogs to blame.

I had to dispose of my shame.

Frantically, I searched the bathroom for a solution. I pushed aside the shower curtain and surveyed the shower. I looked around the toilet bowl. Nothing. Opening the cabinet under the sink, I found everything I would need: cleaning supplies, paper towels, rubber gloves and a plunger.

I grabbed the paper towels and rubber gloves. Rolling up my sleeves, I struggled to wiggle my fingers into the gloves. I piled several layers of paper towels onto the sink until the roll was bare. I gave myself a cootie shot for good luck. Breathing deeply and squeezing my eyes shut, my gloved hands plunged into the toilet bowl.

My hands found the offending turd and plucked it from the bowl. Resting it on the paper towels, I fought the urge to retch and run screaming out of the house. I breathed quickly through my open mouth, trying to close off my nostrils completely. With the gloves still on my hands, I washed my hands vigorously under the faucet.

Now that the turd was out of the bowl, I had no idea what to do with it. I looked around the bathroom for a solution. It was too large to fit down the shower drain, and the smell would quickly make its way out of the garbage pail. The small window seemed my only option.
I pushed aside the lacy curtains and opened the window. Surely my turd would be mistaken for dog doo if found on the lawn. As I looked out the window, I realized this was no longer an option. An elderly woman was weeding her garden right next door. She looked up and waved cheerfully at me. My hopes dashed, I shut the window and slid down to the floor in despair.
My brain raced, looking for an answer. I visualized the layout of the house, and recalled the half-bathroom downstairs off the kitchen. This was my best and only solution. I would have to carry my turd down the stairs and flush it there, and I had to act quickly. The sun was rising, flooding the entire house with light. Sue's parents would be up any minute.

I inched the bathroom door open as silently as possible. The hallway was empty and quiet. Creeping towards the stairs, I glanced into the kitchen. It too was empty. The bathroom door was slightly ajar. This was my only chance.

Back in the bathroom, I stared at the turd resting on the center of the paper towels. A wave of nausea gripped my stomach. I swallowed it down and steeled my nerves. My fists pumped up and down, readying for the task at hand.

I walked down the hallway with the turd balanced on the paper towels like a birthday cake. My steps were slow and deliberate. Sweat cascaded down my forehead and stung my eyes. The center of the paper towel drooped with the weight of the turd.

I took the steps one a time, exhaling each time I found my footing. As my feet finally met the ground floor, I breathed a sigh of relief. Salvation was just a few feet away.

I walked into the kitchen, biting my lip with concentration. My brow was furrowed. My eyes never left the turd, which I was holding at chin level. My palms were sweating inside the rubber gloves, creating little pools. The turd was dipping dangerously low on the moist paper towels.

Once in the bathroom, I dumped the turd into the toilet. It plopped into the bowl loudly, sending droplets of water onto the rim of the bowl. I flushed quickly and watched in relief as it disappeared with the water.

I came out of the bathroom and shut the door, leaning against it with my eyes closed. I snapped the rubber gloves off of my hands like a surgeon satisfied with her final stitches. Breathing a sigh of relief, I heard a sharp intake of air. My eyes jolted open.

Electricity snaked through my entire body. I was stuck to the spot as Mr. Roberts, Sue's father, stared at me, bewildered. He was wearing a robe and had the paper spread out before him. A spoon was suspended below his open lips. Drops of milk dripped onto the table. I fought to meet his leaden gaze.

We remained silent and motionless for an eternity, as if under a spell. Eventually, I shuffled over to the table and sat beside him. I opened and closed my mouth twice, unable to produce any sound. The third time I opened my mouth, Mr. Roberts awoke from his trance.

"Rice Krispies?" he offered, sliding the box over to me without meeting my eyes.

"Mmm hmm," I managed to respond.

I poured myself a large bowl of Rice Krispies and a glass of milk. I was grateful for the snap crackle and pop exploding in my ears. Mr. Roberts' eyes bore a hole into my hands as I dug into the bowl with my spoon. I looked down and realized that I had not washed my hands before sitting down to breakfast.

"Oh! Excuse me!" I gasped, pushing back the chair and running over to the kitchen sink. He studied me as I soaped up my hands and ran the suds over the backs and fronts of my hands, scrubbing my palms together and rubbing my wrists raw. Once finished, I dried my hands on a paper towel and returned to my seat, digging down into my cereal. I gave him a weak smile and kept my mouth full, chewing until my jaw ached. Mr. Roberts eventually averted his eyes and shuffled his paper, quietly handing me the funnies. I nodded my appreciation and read Beatle Bailey with rapt attention. We slurped to the bottom of our cereal bowls with silent determination.