the story behind the porta-john

I've made a career out of not eating breakfast. I just don't buy the hype about how breakfast boosts your energy level. Me, I think it depends on the person. At my university job in Seoul, classes would begin at 7:40AM, which meant that I needed to be up by 6:30 to do more important things than eat breakfast, namely, the Three Esses; Shit, Shave, and Shower. A Kevin who appears in class having done only two of the Three Esses is an ostracized Kevin, a social leper, a pariah. Having done the Three Esses, I've found that I'm perfectly ready for the 7:40 class, often being more energetic than my students at that hour.

My biology has adapted accordingly over the decades. If food enters my body at too early an hour, my colon goes, "Oho! Extra duty, boys! Get ready! Now, puuuussssshh!!!"

That's basically what happened today. By eating a voluminous breakfast, strapping on my pack's hip belt, and effectively massaging my gut by walking six or seven miles, I had sent the ultimate signal to my internal boxing referee: "Lllllllllet's get ready to rumblllllllle!" And rumble I did. The seismic activity began to intensify at a logarithmic rate while I was passing through (oh, Lord-- passing through!) a sprawling suburban neighborhood.

When your body taps your mind insistently on the shoulder, your mind soon finds itself unable to concentrate on anything other than the tapping. Today was a good example of that: as the gastric pressure continued to build toward cataclysm with every massage-jolt of the hip belt, my brain was reduced to spending all its time analyzing my surroundings and sifting through possible dumping scenarios that ranged in plausibility from feasible (feces-able?) to laughable.

Then a miracle happened, though some superstitious part of my brain seemed to expect it: as I was walking, the suburbs suddenly peeled back and revealed a construction site. Normally, construction sites are mundane affairs; building is happening everywhere, in almost every town and city, so we rarely pay these sites much attention except to note with annoyance the dust and grit they produce.

Not today. Today, with my brain on overdrive, I seized hungrily upon this thought even before it was halfway out of my mind's womb:

Construction sites have porta-johns.

Unfortunately, the section of my mind devoted to sphincter control suddenly released its grip for a microsecond to shout, "Hooray! It's over!" in relief; luckily, the other department heads screamed, "He hasn't reached the toilet yet!" in time to prevent any early seepage. But sphincters, once they receive word that unclenching is imminent, tend to become unruly. Haste was necessary.

In that spirit, I skirted the fence surrounding the construction site, looking for a way in. I reached one end of the fence and found myself approaching a taciturn construction worker who was off by himself and preparing to light up. He was wearing shades, but it was obvious he was staring at me and knew I'd probably want a word with him. He held his cigarette low, at parade rest, politely awaiting whatever I had to say.

I sidled up to the fence (to the extent that a man in my desperate condition could sidle), said, "This is going to sound strange, but..." and asked the gentleman whether it would be all right if I used one of the porta-johns. He said that would be fine, but I'd better be quick about it because I'd be on site without a hard hat. I asked the man for his name-- "Jeff," he said. I told him I simply wanted to be able to tell the other workers who had permitted me on site if anyone got to asking what I was doing. Jeff nodded absently and lit up. In his mind, I had already ceased to exist.

Jeff had indicated that the entrance was all the way around the other side of the site, exactly opposite where I'd been standing and conversing. Figures, right? I managed the perimeter walk, found an empty john with no trouble (no one asked any questions), and loudly gave vent to my pent-up anal fury.

The porta-johns in Washington State seem, for the most part, to be supplied by a company with the disgusting name Honey Bucket (in the DC area, it's common to see Don's Johns). Maybe it's just me, but I don't imagine that, if you reached into one of those septic tanks and dredged the bottom with clawed fingers, you'd come away with an arm covered in honey. Am I nuts to think that the "honey bucket" image, when applied to septic waste, is a mite quease-inducing?

Hiney-bucket seems more apropos.

So I did the dirty deed and schlepped away a happier man. But I also know I'm not eating breakfast again if I plan either to teach for several hours straight or to walk more than ten miles.


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