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Phantom Passing PAGE
THREE Alright. Hold on here. No reason to panic. Unable to negotiate the button's release, I calmly exited the stall and returned to the lunch table. No problem. I would simply just wait it out. Surely the Phantom suffered through worse all those hours pining after that lovely chorus girl. I hoped the urge would pass. Sitting there staring at my now cold chalupa, with the sickly-sweet scent of fake scar/turd held in my nose by the mask, I quickly realized the situation was dire. The urge did not pass; the urge to pass increased ten-fold every minute. Starting to sweat and pale, I returned to the bathroom. I locked the stall behind me. I fumbled with the button again. I wrestled with it. I coaxed. I cajoled. I begged and pleaded. I wrung my hands and fought another urge, the urge to cry. My lower lip quivered. Looking back on myself now, the story seems as ludicrous to me as I'm sure it does to you. Why didn't I just rip the pants? Find some scissors? Find a teacher? Or a yard monitor? I must plead the "if I only knew then what I know now" defense. I was a smart young kid. Unfortunately, a smart child is an analytical child. And analytical children often get themselves lost so deeply in their own critical examination of a situation that it's more difficult to get out than it was to start with. Couple that with a shy child afraid of failure and mistakes that brand one a social pariah, and you can imagine the possible disastrous consequences I envisioned. Somehow the thought of going to see a teacher and telling her I couldn't unbutton my own pants was infinitely more terrifying than any possible scenario that might result from just staying in the bathroom, pacing and trying to hold my cheeks together. It amuses me now to think about how I might have handled the situation if I had my current confident ability to assert and articulate myself. Oddly enough, as a defense mechanism to cope with my quaking childhood state, I developed a pretty darn self-righteous streak over the years, as those who have ever witnessed me haggle over the price of an incorrect cable bill or parking garage ticket will attest to. If, as a nine-year-old, I had been able to articulate myself in such a manner, I would have certainly found the nearest yard monitor, and handled the situation something like this: "Excuse me, yard monitor? Yes, hello. I'm sorry; I don't know your name. Cheryl? Oh yes, I see it right there on your name tag. Listen, Cheryl, do you mind if I talk to you for a moment? No? Excellent. Actually, can we sit down at that empty lunch table over there? The thing is, I'm in a rather odd predicament, and I want to make sure we're on the same page. Great. Hey, are you hungry? You work so hard, standing out there with just your whistle every lunch period. Can I get you a muffin or something? I have some dimes in my backpack. Alright, then. Maybe next time. Cheryl, I don't see any wisdom in skirting the issue here, so I'm just going to come right out and say it. I can't unbutton my pants. Ridiculous, isn't it? I know! You'd think I, an Upper Grader, could at least handle that. But really, my nimble little fingers are failing me and I'm at the end of my rope here. I gave it my best. And to be honest with you Cheryl, I'm feeling a little restless in the bowel department, if you know what I mean. Right. I know this is a bit embarrassing, but you're an adult here; I'm sure you've seen worse. So, if you could just reach down and provide me with some assistance, I'll be off to the restroom to relieve myself and we'll call it a day. Would you be so kind? Oh, excellent. Excellent. Cheryl, you are fantastic." But it didn't happen like that. I couldn't bring myself to tell anyone, and so after many more agonizing minutes pacing back and forth in that tiny yellow stall, it finally happened. I shat myself. A nine-year-old dressed smartly as the darkly heroic Phantom of the Opera. An Upper Grader. I let it go, and it was not pretty. It was worse than expected. I was past the point of no return. I won't go into details about the rest of the day. It was something of a blur, and it would just be a bunch of poop and fart jokes anyway (not that I don't love those...). I will just simply say that I made it through the school day, on the bus across town, and back home without anyone finding out. There were some suspicious noses with good olfactory senses throughout the day, but other than that no one was the wiser. At home, I broke down crying, nauseous from the makeup and the guilt, and told my mom. She helped me clean up. She was an absolute hero about it. There are many things they don't tell you when you bring a newborn home, and I'm pretty sure one of them is that one day nine years later you may be attending to your sniffling shit-logged little Phantom. We found another pair of black slacks, and I went out trick-or-treating a few hours later. I had a blast. I'm
not sure if the Phantom ever lurked around the catacombs of l'Opera
with poopy pants. I do know he was something of a loner, paranoid
and wary of strangers. Maybe he would have handled the problem just
like I did. Maybe that's why he was down there in the first place.
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The
pants were a couple of years old and probably an inch or two tight.
The button was a little tricky, and I'd had some difficulties getting
it undone for the occasional Sunday school pee break in the past.
But, difficulties. Minor snags, pardon the pun, in
procedure. After a little fancy finger play, the button always popped
free. This was not minor. This was a toilet SNAFU. This was nuclear.
