Little Talks: The Inaugural Bathroom Break

A series of short stories about a relationship starring a fictional couple who live rent free in Scott’s head.

An unwelcome rumbling makes its way through my midsection.

As I sit on the couch, she next to me with her head resting on my shoulder, I think, “This is probably going to be pretty bad. And it’s going to happen. The center is not going to hold.”

We’re right in the middle of A Quiet Place — a film you probably don’t want to choose, and trust me on this, on a night when you might find yourself in some sort of gastrointestinal distress. it’s a movie that is mostly, well, pretty fucking quiet, full of prolonged moments of complete and suspenseful silence. So slightly off-putting gurgling sounds are somewhat jarringly audible.

“We should have gone with a Michael Bay joint,” I think with some sincerity for the first and hopefully last time in my life.

During one scene where we’re waiting to see if anyone is going to be killed off by aliens, I shift to the literal edge of my seat and my stomach lobbies a rather loud protest, shattering the silence and messing with the moment.

She lightly pats my stomach (which certainly doesn’t help matters) and says, “You still hungry?”

I am not.

I start to sweat a little bit, realize the situation is becoming dire and that a trip to her restroom is inevitable.

Some things just can’t wait — can’t be avoided for too long or shit’s going to get real, real bad.

I’m going to have to get way out of my comfort zone tonight. There comes a time in every relationship where you have to in one way or the other, but I always thought I’d have more time — more occasions where I would be able to successfully hold it in until I made my way back home, or at least to the public restroom of a Starbucks along my usual route. I certainly did not look forward to taking a shit at my girlfriend’s apartment for the first time and hoped to delay that milestone for as long as possible. But all things come to an end eventually.

“It’s just the nachos starting to get a little bit chatty,” I say with a laugh, still attempting to fool myself into thinking I can just sit still as I can and hope for my body’s burgeoning urge to drop a massive bomb, and soon.

In hindsight, we probably shouldn’t have gotten the double-order of loaded nachos when we ordered in for the night, something I insisted we pull the trigger on simply because they were buy-one-get-one free and if you don’t take advantage of a deal like that you’re basically losing money. It’s simple economics.

“They were good though,” she says. “And that’s impressive, because nachos rarely travel very well. A real risk when you get them delivered, you know?”

“When you’re right, you’re right,” I say, bringing my sleeve up to my forehead to wipe away a few beads of perspiration. The nachos are traveling through me, and not well.

You always know it’s going to be a really good bad one when the pre-shit sweats set in.

I somewhat heroically make it through another 10 minutes, not wanting to head straight for the head immediately after a brief loaded nachos discussion that would almost certainly lead her to believe I had to go relieve myself of some serious food-induced demons.

Then I say I’m going to take a quick bathroom break. I can no longer hold out.

I am about to absolutely shatter my steadfast rule of not shitting at an abode rented or owned by someone I am dating. A momentous occasion if ever there was one.

She pauses the movie, says, “I don’t want you to miss anything.”

“You’re the best,” I say.

This while thinking, “Fuck. Now it’s going to be even quieter in here. Too quiet.”

I refrain from suggesting she maybe put a little music on and to smoke ’em if she got ’em while I’m gone because I’ve got to have some sort of decorum here and don’t want her to think I’m going to be absent in the bathroom for an extended period of time. The hope is to get in and get out in a short enough amount of time that she might think I was just taking a piss.

That is, of course, just wishful thinking. I know how things are going to go and this is not going to be the quickest break of my life.

I stand up and semi-waddle, hopefully not too noticeably, to the commode, starting to prairie-dog it en route.

I make it just in time to drop trou and turn her water faucet on high as it will go before perching on the toilet and letting it fully rip. I am unable to restrain myself and there is no going back now. Things are about to get slightly dystopian in her small bathroom that of course happens to be sans fan.

I know when she hears the sink water going for an extended period of time she’s going to discern that I’m not just hanging a liquid wire or freshening up. I pride myself on dating someone intuitive, generally, but in this moment yearn for a more naive partner, which is sad because aren’t relationships supposed to be built on honesty and transparency, even and especially when it comes to the worst shit?

“I need to get more secure,” I think while I fire off a wet fart that impresses even me with both its audible ferocity and ensuing noxious odor. (Sounded kinda like when you’d put baseball cards in your bicycle spokes.) There is absolutely no way she doesn’t hear that particular toot. I take a deep breath in with my nose because even in this situation I’m still going to give some admiration to the havoc my body can wreak. (Honestly, if you tell me you don’t sniff your own farts from time to time I will absolutely not believe you. And if it happens you’re telling the truth — something I could probably never verify one way or the other — then I don’t understand the kind of person you are. I may be off base with this thinking, though.)

I give a courtesy flush. Seems prudent because I don’t want things to escalate to a clogging situation, and Murphy’s Law dictates that if you’re not careful you’re going to absolutely plug up the toilet at your girlfriend’s house and be served a harsh reminder that unlike unruly dudes who keep a plunger in direct eye-sight of their toilets, many women do not, as they’re eyesores and I like to assume that these generally much more elegant people are not blowing things up in a historical fashion quite as often as we tend to. At least not that we know about, for the most part.

I take care to clear myself out the best I can. I’m not doing it in a leisurely way, haven’t cracked a book or anything, but ensuring I take enough time to get back to neutral and hopefully avoid having to penguin-walk back to the bathroom in 10 minutes. I’ve already messed with the movie-watching momentum enough.

I finish up, give a final flush (my third?), wash my hands, splash my face with cold water to help stop the lingering sweating, spray copious amounts of Febreze I find in the cabinet below the sink and head back out to the living room where I hope we won’t be discussing what I have just done.

But I’m not that lucky.

“You fall in?” she asks.

I try to chuckle a little bit.

“Almost. But what happened was I saw the latest People magazine in there and got pretty engrossed.”

“That can happen. Sucks you in.”

“Sure does.”

“Was it the ‘Sexiest Man Alive’ issue?”

“Sure was.”

“Do you ever wonder how they choose the person they dole out that honor to?”

“Only during every waking moment, really.”

“Beauty is so subjective.”

“Sure is.”

I take my place on the couch and ask her if she’s ready to start the movie back up.

“Actually, I have next,” she says, getting up to head toward the restroom.

“Wait — don’t!” I say.

“What?”

Time to come clean.

“I mean — can you hold it for a little bit?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Well, I did just drop something of a bomb in there.”

“I didn’t think you were crimping your hair. You were gone, like, 10 minutes.”

I feel myself blushing. “Wow. Time really is a flat circle.”

“What?”

“It’s from True Detective.”

“Haven’t seen it.”

“Add it to our list. First season is iconic.”

“I’ll put it in on there,” she says and continues toward the restroom.

“Seriously,” I say. “You should give it a soft 10 before you even approach the vicinity of the facilities and probably up to 20 before you dredge up the bravery to actually go in.”

“That bad, huh?”

“It wasn’t good, no. I sprayed some Febreze but I think that’s like putting a Band-Aid on a bullet wound in this scenario.”

“Wow — you really tore it up. But i can handle it. I have to piss like a racehorse.”

“It’s your funeral, really.”

She walks into the restroom and doubles back with a quickness.

“Nice work. Wow,” she says.

“Thanks?” i say. “I do what I can.”

“I’m not even mad. I’m impressed.”

I stand up from my spot on the couch and curtsy.

“Okay, I’m going in,” she says.

“Good luck and god speed.”

She’s in there for a while. But I hear nothing except the sound of the sink faucet running. (I hope she could say the same about me when I was in there, but I am not confident.) She comes out, pats her stomach and says, “I feel a few pounds lighter.”

“I thought you just had to piss?”

“Well, then I also wanted to revisit that issue of People so I stayed seated and had a time. Did you know you can plug your nose using only a bobby pin? Because now I do.”

“That’s very MacGyver of you.”

“We do what we can with what we’ve got. Also, I took a massive shit.”

“I thought girls didn’t poop.”

“You thought wrong.”

“Ah, the human body.”

“It’s a magical thing.”

“Anyway, want to resume the movie?”

“Let’s do it.”

Later on, toward the end, she leans into me and whispers, “Next time I come to your place I’m totally upper-decking your toilet.”

We laugh so hard I almost shit myself.