Defecation Station

January 8, 2017–5:23pm:
I’m finishing up an emergency call on West 47th street when I get an urgent message from my secretary.

“There’s been a giant blast in town square. Diarrhea all over the wall. Several dingle berries. The mayor wants to see you right away. It’s a very prominent restroom.” She sounds troubled.

I cut the conversation short and drop my phone on the seat. “Driver, change of plans. Let my wife know it might be another late night.”

My driver shouldn’t have to make these kinds of calls for me. But for me the shame is debilitating. I don’t want to hear the disappointment in her voice. Again.

The stench permeates our car from a block away. Crowds gather outside the public restroom. The scene is in disarray. Freshly moist diarrhea drips from the wall.

The Mayor works his way toward me through the crowd. “It happened around 3:42 this afternoon. A family of eight from Nebraska reported the incident. The husband claims the diarrhea dripped on his shirt when he opened the stall.”

I interrupt him. “Do you know what they had for lunch?”

“Well, the mother smelled like garlic. And she was carrying a Cinnabon bag. A couple of the kids were eating muffins and the oldest boy was severely overweight.” The Mayor looked troubled.

“When were these garbage cans emptied last?” The heat of the bathroom was beginning to take a toll on us both. The heavy odor fused with the beads of sweat on my brow.

“The cleaning crew comes every morning.” He looked confused by the question.

“Are these your pants?” I pulled out a wrinkly brown wad of fabric from the garbage can. Wet toilet paper was stuck to the pocket and there was a ghastly dark brown smear on the inner seam.

“I don’t know why my pants would be here.” He opened the stall again, attempting to shift the focus back to the unbroken turd that lay lifelessly on the back of the seat.

“You were wearing these pants at 11:47am this morning. The webcam on West 47th street has unmistakable footage.” I pause to gauge his reaction. “The pants you’re wearing now don’t match your shirt. Are those even your pants?”

The question catches him off guard. The confidence in his demeanor takes a shift. His back slides down the bathroom wall and he drops his face between his knees. A bead of sweat clings to his nose like a mountain climber hanging on for survival.

“There’s some people who aren’t going to like this report.” I’m ready to end the conversation.

“I don’t know what to say.“ He grabs the urinal to steady himself. “I had a big lunch. Big meetings this morning too. I have a very busy schedule.” He looks back at the stall. Shame washes over his face. I can see that he doesn’t fully believe his own words.

“You’re talking to the wrong person.” I run my finger across the top of the toilet. “Someone’s going to be left to pick up the pieces.”

He doesn’t move as the spattered stall door slams shut. What’s left to say? I can see he’s trying to process the events of the day.

There are moments in every man’s life when he must deal with his thoughts, alone.

I slump in the taxi seat. The door to the public bathroom fades into the distance, but the memory is so fresh I can still smell it. I peel a chunk of dried feces from my briefcase and flick it out the window.

“How could someone be so reckless?” I torture myself with this question every day.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll find the answer. That’s what I keep telling myself anyway. It’s the only thing that keeps me going.

Dave Alexander is Chief Investigator and Lead Detective at www.ShitterSleuth.com.