Dear Tim, clever, witty, intellectual Tim,
I loathe admitting my lack of intelligence. I am easily confounded by the simplest of puzzles and rudimentary tasks. This may surprise you, considering my extensive and lofty education, but while I may have thorough knowledge of histories, philosophies, and general facts, it is in deftness of mind and quick thinking that I am woefully deficient. Some may call this wisdom-sans-wit — others, a lack of common sense. In spite of remediation attempts, this lapse has resulted in my physical and emotional injury on numerous occasions. I generally try to avoid situations that require of me the use of logic, however, I find that life abounds with such situations.
It may please you to learn that I had been romantically involved with a woman for some time recently. She was from a prominent family — well-bred — and had run the prestigious private education circuit, starting with expensive preparatory schooling and moving on to Ivy League undergraduate and graduate programs. She was smart, serious, and, above all else, driven. A career-oriented individual, she was not given to those delusional dreams of artistic fame to which I am so prone. One might wonder, as I often did, why she was with a man who was so clearly flawed. She was unquestionably homely. It was this trait, I conjectured, that she was all too conscious of and considered me a suitable suitor for what she could attain given her appearance. Regardless, I was madly in love with her. I only hoped that she took our affair as seriously as I did.
She invited me to her company’s end of the year gala. She worked for a large financial firm and they had had an excellent year. Her invitation included a strongly voiced condition: I was, under no circumstances, to embarrass her in any way. She was, of course, intimately aware of my bizarre idiosyncrasies, predisposition to flights of fancy, and tendency towards confusion by the most benign statements. Therefore, I was instructed to say little and to nod politely during all conversations. I was to be at her side the entire night so that she could be aware of everything I did or said. These instructions were reasonable to me, and understandable given my history, but it increased my anxiety regarding the celebration tenfold.
Outside the banquet hall, my love reiterated, in no uncertain terms, her expectations for my behaviour that night. I demurely reassured her of my acquiescence to her demands and followed her inside. I was incredibly nervous, but upon entering the hall I was awestruck at the grandiosity of the space — its awesomeness consumed my mind and body. From the center of the ceiling hung a giant, brilliant, shimmering chandelier that illuminated the hall with a comfortable amber glow. This decoration was positioned directly above a long, narrow carpet that split the floor in half. It ran from the doorway down to a raised stage with a podium at the extreme end of the hall. On either side of the carpeted passage were dozens of circular dining tables, arranged with ample space for standing and conversing in-between, set with fabulous silverware, candelabra, bouquets, and corresponding name cards denoting the seating. Along the left and right walls were two bars, with many taps for beer and superior selections of liquor and wine. Above these bars were giant banners adorned with the company logo and slogan. Various holiday décor was decked about, including two towering evergreens in opposite corners. The room was generously staffed, bustling with tray-wielding waiters transporting cocktails and hors d’oeuvres. A string quartet supplied the background music.
I breathed all this in and was nearly overwhelmed by such a fantastic sight. My attention was arrested, however, by something to my left that surpassed my recognition. It appeared to be an oddly designed fountain. The base of this structure was a metal pool of substantial diameter, in the center of which was a strange sort of tower. It stood six feet tall and was composed of several connected upside-down bowls, decreasing in size from the bottom to top, whereupon one upright bowl sat. Confused and curious, I ventured over towards the structure to investigate, briefly forgetting my promise to stay by my beloved’s side. Upon nearing, I realized two perplexing aspects of this font. First, it was clearly not running; the pool was still, and nothing flowed. Second, the pool contained not water, but rather a sweet smelling brown liquid — its surprising warmth convected through the neighboring air.
Before I could conduct further appraisal, my date was by my side and abruptly pulled me away. After lightly scolding me for my disobedience, she told me that she would like for me to accompany her to a group of her co-workers, and we proceeded in their direction. I passed off the curiosity as a sort of art installation and soon forgot about it altogether.
I was escorted to the circle of her colleagues and, as per behest, smiled, nodded, and greeted all present. After shaking the hand of the last member of the current cohort, I resumed my station next to my lady. I was now in no way comfortable. The presence of so many people and the intimidating pressure of the imposed rules discomfited me. I was able to continue my ruse, gazing politely at a speaker and laughing when appropriate, but I felt my countenance slipping.
I was nearly about to break when, without warning, I was accosted by a waiter holding a tray of martinis. I was so distressed by my mood and the sudden interruption that I did not register his question at first.
“I said would you like a drink, sir?”
Uncertain, I looked to my sweetheart for approval. She intimated to me her permission. From this, I gathered that she noticed I was struggling, and that I might as well enjoy myself as her guest at the gala. I graciously indicated my thanks, and took one of the drinks. The liquor flowed down my throat like an ice-banked stream in the first thaw of spring. I was inwardly thankful as my nerves eased and my composure resolved.
After imbibing a small quantity, the night became easier. I even had the honour of meeting her superiors, including the CEO of the company. I was in impeccable obedience of the rules set forth. All I uttered were genteel greetings and introductions. However, unbeknownst to my darling, who was distracted by friendly discussion with her associates, I was replacing my empty drinking glass at every pass of the steward and feeding a growing inebriation.
An hour or so into the event, a man stepped up to the podium to inform us that dinner would be served shortly. The fare proved to be exquisite, much like the rest of the evening, but exotic. The theme of the full-course meal was a taste of the East, and, as such, we were advised to inform our servers of any food allergies we might harbor. This I should have heeded, but I was slightly too drunk to care.
Dish after dish of Indian and Southeast Asian varieties was presented as we dined. The taste was exceptional and rare; I had never had such flavors grace my tongue! My gullet was subjected to a continual stream of delicacies until I had enjoyed far more than my fill.
Our tables were cleared and the same man walked up to the podium again and announced that the CEO would make a speech succeeded by a champagne toast. Flutes filled with vintage Veuve Clicquot were passed around as the audience applauded the CEO’s advance to the stage. He had not yet reached the steps when I was struck by a peculiar sensation in my abdominal area; it was discomfort beyond any that I had experienced previously.
The CEO began his speech boasting of four profitable quarters, congratulating the employees for their work and efforts. I could barely mark his elocution as the disturbance in my digestive system was aggravated to a dire requirement to defecate. My muscles clenched as I tried to maintain through the speech so that my escort could walk me to the restroom afterwards. I decided, however, that the risk of my unsupervised trip was worth saving her the embarrassment of me soiling myself during the CEO’s address. I whispered to my sweet my predicament, and, seeing that I was unwell, she permitted me my temporary leave.
I whipped about and assumed a brisk pace towards the doors of the hall, overturning chairs left and right, and shoving my way through, causing several to spill their drinks. I had made it past the throng of the audience when I understood the unsettling — I had no idea the whereabouts of the restroom, but required one urgently. Otherwise, I would have a terrible accident and be the cause of my lover’s untold humiliation — the main stipulation of the night. I could not allow that to happen.
In a desperate panic, I searched the walls left and right. Distressingly, there were no signs for the direction of the restroom. The situation seemed hopeless when I again noticed that puzzling fountain from before. I immediately grasped its utility as a receptacle for my ensuing bowel movement. It was away from the crowd and the brown water it held would disguise my floating feces. The time for further contemplation was fleeting, so I began unbuckling my trousers as I made a course for this lucky structure. I sat my naked rump upon the edge of the pool, and, fortuitously, the toast commenced, and the party cheered, masking the cheer of my own making. It was a happy coincidence because the sound of liquid interspersed with gas escaping my rectum was not at all soft. As I released this horrid torrent, I gasped towards the heavens. The crowd, concerned with their drinks and focused on the stage, was entirely unaware.
I remained seated, breathing heavily in spite of the appalling odour filling my mouth and nostrils, until my remaining droppings spilled out of my anus. Then, surreptitiously, I snuck away to find the actual location of the restroom proper so that I could cleanse myself. I inwardly commended myself for my original and unorthodox thinking.
As I re-entered the hall, I saw that the same man who introduced the CEO had resumed his position at the podium and announced that it was time for dessert. An assortment of fruits and a tray of wooden skewers were laid out on a table near me. One banquet hall worker then went over and somehow turned on that baffling fountain I had just relieved myself in. I was in shock as my stool was suctioned under the surface of the pool to be cascaded down the center-tower and diluted in the admixture. The whole party gathered around the table and started puncturing fruits with the skewers. They then scrambled over to the fountain and dipped their fruits into the flowing russet solution. Wide-eyed and mouth ajar, I watched in horror as they proceeded to eat that which they had just unknowingly covered in an excrement concoction.
I heard some comment on its unique taste.
“My, quite a poignant flavor! I think it adds depth and dimension. Very delicious I must say”
“Yes, and with a nutty texture as well. How exquisite!”
Some even did away with fruit altogether and started filling up teacups with the liquid. It streamed down their cheeks as they furiously gulped it down.
I thought, My God, what have I done, as my moderator walked up and put her arm around mine.
“Did you find the bathroom alright?” she asked.
“Um what?… Uh yea, yea sure,” I replied as I stared at the tragedy playing before me.
“Is there something wrong?”
“NO!” I said a little too loudly as people returned for another taste, “I mean no, no, nothing’s wrong.”
“Good.” She smiled sweetly. “You’ve been really great tonight and I just wanted to make sure you’re having a good time. Come let’s go grab some chocolate fondue.”
My heart was galloping at full speed. The drunker members in attendance were now kneeling down and lapping up the dessert from their hands. She pulled me by the arm but I resisted her lead.
“Um… I’m not feeling fondue right now.” I sheepishly disclosed, my eyes shifting back and forth.
“Are you sure? Everyone seems to be really enjoying it,” she responded, releasing my arm, “I think I might get some”
She started walking away when I gripped her arm. She looked down at my hand and back at me, concerned at the amount of force I had used.
“I’m not feeling well,” I lied, “I think we should leave.”
“What’s going on?” She was not buying my story, she knew me too well.
“Nothing, I just want to go, alright?”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh my God, what did you do?!” she exclaimed as people started to notice our escalating conversation.
“Nothing.”
“You need to tell me what you did RIGHT NOW!”
“I went in the…” I mumbled, trailing off.
“What?!”
“I said I went in the fondue,” I admitted, just audibly.
“YOU DID WHAT?!”
“I SAID I TOOK A SHIT IN THE FONDUE, ALRIGHT!?”
My eruption was followed by the utter silence of the entire banquet hall. Pandemonium ensued as gasps and shrieks crowded the room. Diners spat what they were eating onto the floor, onto suits and dresses, into one another’s faces! Many, upon realizing their consumption of another human being’s feces, started gagging. People pushed their way to garbage receptacles to vomit. When the openings of the bins became overcrowded those who could not suppress their nausea were forced to spew their contents on the heads of those in the way. Some had not any time to react and retched directly in the bottom of the caquelon. This was siphoned up to the top of the tower, much as before, and trickled down, becoming part of the new disgusting solution. One poor woman, out of shock and grief, fainted right into the pool of chocolate, feces, and vomit.
The cab ride home was tense and hushed. I could not summon the correct words for such a singular situation. Apparently, my love had nothing to say either. She had been embarrassed beyond conception. What could I have done to avoid such a horrific mishap? It was a typical, although ill-timed, bodily function, and I did my best to avoid, through power of thought, the immediate embarrassment of soiling myself, but, alas, I am not a wily man. My understanding and foresight are indelibly limited, and I grossly overestimated my capacity for them this night. Call it fate, call it destiny — heck, even call it God — but it is as though any relationship involving me is toxic and wont to fail. I am wholly incapable of normalcy, and, therefore, acceptance and intimacy. My impaired intelligence has ensured that. As the headlights beamed down the empty road, I gazed up at the stars and felt my fellow passenger’s love expire.
Artwork by basper01. Quite possibly his best, don’t you think?
