Counter Culture : Adam Matcho
“So you know how I went to Century III mall to train as a District Manager?” he told me one day. I nodded. He had been with the company for so long, he sometimes filled in when the District Manager was out of town.
“I wanted to dress up, you know,” he said. “I wore a shirt and tie and my beige khakis. That was my fist mistake. No, no. Drinking too much Jagermiester the night before was my first mistake, but I wanted to look professional.
“So I was doing the store walk-through when I felt a gas bubble.” He then came closer, like he wanted to gossip about the other people in the room.
“Have you ever had to fart, but when you let it out, it was more than that?”
There were a few things going on in my mind when the question was posed. First, I was still stoned form the ride in. This made things seem insane and hilarious. But he was not laughing. No, he was downright somber about the whole anecdote. Also, I am a good listener. I can relate to and identify with all kinds of weird stuff. This is part of the reason why he was comfortable enough to tell me this story in the first place. So, when he asked if I ever sharted, without a smile or nasal chuckle, all I could say was, “Yeah, all the time.”
He looked at me skeptically before continuing.
“Well,” he said. “This was more. I ran back to the bathroom and tried to wipe myself down with the toilet paper, but it was all over the place. On my cheeks and thighs. Even behind one of my knees.”
I inhaled through my teeth and gave a sympathetic cringe. Then I refocused on not laughing.
“My khakis were ruined,” he said, shaking his head. “It went right through them. The store manager was knocking on the door asking if I was okay and I just told him to grab me pair of shorts from the sales floor. The asshole brings me a pair of plaid Corona boxer shorts.”
I knew he hated plaid. Every time I wore one of my plaid button-down shirts, he told me he was going to sign me up for one of the fashion makeover shows on TLC.
“So I changed into the boxers, tucked my shirt in and tried to finish the walk-through.”
“Were you still wearing your tie?” I said. I’m not sure why, but it seemed important at the time. When he said yes, my mental image was complete: I saw him with his carefully combed hair and thin glasses, an ironed dress shirt tucked into a pair of blue and white plaid boxer shorts. And wearing a tie. I wasn’t sure if it was the pot or not, but that tie was what really did it for me. I put my hand over my mouth and laughed. I laughed so hard I started to cough.
“Yeah,” he said. “Laugh it up you son of a bitch.”
“Did you finish the walk through?” I said between laughs and coughs. I was waving my hand in front of me, suggesting I couldn’t take any more.
“No,” he said. “I tried to, but I gave up and went home after ten minutes. Those ugly fucking boxers were too much.”
I gradually composed myself. I had gotten so overwhelmed by laughter, a coughing fit and cottonmouth, I had to choke down spontaneous vomit. I quickly stopped laughing and rubbed my burning throat.
That exact story passed through my head as I remained stuck to the ground, listening to this guy in fatigues drone on about the subtle differences in lava lamp colors.
There was something inspirational about recounting my boss’s story. I felt momentarily saved, not in an evangelical way, but I didn’t have to go to the bathroom so badly. The pressure and intensity had passed. I slowly lifted myself from my heel.
The man stopped talking as I gingerly rose. I was deliberate in every movement, trying to be aware of each muscle and sensation. My knees cracked as I straightened. My hand held to the plexiglass countertop as if it were a suction cup. I breathed fast and deeply as I aligned my spine with the rest of my body.
“Are you okay, buddy?” the lava lamp guy finally said. “Did you sprain your ankle or something?”
I was standing now and looked down at the man’s fishing license. His name was David. My stomach vibrated like a seldom-oiled, wrought iron gate being slowly opened and slammed shut. I closed my eyes and tried to control my breathing: in through the nose, out through the mouth. Lamaze style. I knew I wasn’t pregnant, but it certainly felt like I was birthing something.
“Do you need something?” David said. Now he was concerned about my predicament, when the worst had passed.
“Sir,” I said, in my best Morgan Freeman voice, “Step aside, I need to get a ladder.”
David didn’t really have to step aside or move much, but I said it anyway. The 10-foot, yellow ladder was propped against a wall in the back. I walked slowly, keeping count of the squares on the tile floor. I tried to step on every other square, not hitting any of the lines. I figured by focusing on scrupulous things like this, I wouldn’t think of my uneasy stomach or the new limp I had started walking with.
I propped the door to the backroom open and grabbed the heavy ladder. I carried it at hip-level, horizontally. As I was making my way through the tight aisles of the store, the back end of the ladder smacked into one of the display units knocking over a family of dolls from the Child’s Play movies: the possessed and murderous Chucky, his bride, Tiffany, and their hermaphrodite child.
“I got it,” David said and rushed to the mess. I thought much better of David now. He was kind and helpful. I didn’t even care that he was wearing camouflage.
“These things are kind of disturbing,” he said as he picked up the Chucky doll. “I can’t believe people spend money on this stuff.”
“What color lava lamp did you want?” I said as I jackknifed the ladder open.
David quickly came over to the ladder and pointed to the green and blue lava lamp at the top of the overhead display.
“I got you,” David said, grabbing onto the ladder’s A-frame as I placed my foot on the first step. My stomach tightened and I felt a warm pressure in my lower back. I thought of how dogs secrete when they are excited or nervous. I hoped that wasn’t happening to me.
I lifted my other foot and was off the ground. My stomach gurgled again, but I was very close. I knew I could be on the toilet in less than three minutes if I hurried.
That’s when it all turned on me.
I was on the third and fourth step, barely within reach of the lava lamp. My stomach let out a churning grumble and I knew I had to shit now. I was sweating and I felt a drop fall from my forehead. That’s how it would go, I figured. The shit would run down my leg and drip from the cuff of my pants, freefalling just like that drop of sweat. David was down there, looking up at me, mouth stupidly hung open, steadying the ladder for me.
“Oh fuck,” I thought. “If I let this loose, I’ll shit right in his mouth.” Everything was intense and serious now. My boss may have shit his pants before, but he never actually went on a customer. I would surely get written up for a thing like that.
I began stepping backwards, down the steps.
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of heights,” David said. I wanted to say something funny, like “Don’t tell me you’re afraid to eat a little shit.” But that was all too much work. I just got off the ladder and began to walk toward the back.
“Hey, buddy,” I heard David call as I stepped over the rest of Chucky’s family that he never picked up. “Where are you going?”
I walked through the opened door, into the backroom. I locked the bathroom door behind me and sat down. It was a glorious thing. I was rolled over my thighs, my head down by knees, smiling and gritting the whole time. I felt cleansed and in need of a shower. Release washed me over like a religious experience. A baptism in the murky waters of a contaminated river. There was white light and a sense of penance. I felt like I was ridding my body of all these workplace toxins, the unpaid overtime and holiday shifts, the times I cancelled personal plans for work. All of these four-hour, weekday morning shifts where they didn’t think people had to go to the bathroom. For a minute, I even forgot I was at work. I thought I could breathe cold smoke and see dead poets.
There was a knock at the door.
“You okay in there buddy?” It was David. “You know, I really need to be somewhere today.”
“David,” I said. “I’m on the toilet.”
That’s it. He didn’t say anything after that. No knocking or yelling through the door. He just left.
I figured he was out there, playing with Chucky and the family or something like that. I wanted to hurry, to get out there and help him. I wasn’t sure why. There was a sense of obligation, but I felt I already put in enough effort. Right now, I was taking a shit and the rest of the world, even my job, had to wait.
I felt like a triathlon participant when I finished. It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes, but I felt weak all over. I wanted to find that Misfits blanket my boss stashed in the back and curl up and go to sleep.
There was only an hour before Daneika punched in and I could take a break and sleep if I really wanted to. I figured I’d take care of David, come back to the bathroom and waste a can of Lysol and spray the place down.
I didn’t see David when I came back to the sales floor. He must have gotten tired and left. I didn’t regret anything.
My walk was back to the awkward, jerky gait I was used to. I thought this is what the first walk after a gastric bypass must feel like. Nobody else was in the store and that was just the way I wanted it.
I went to take the ladder down, but it was already compacted and leaned against a shelving unit. David must have done it for me. “What a nice jerk,” I thought.
Then I looked up to the overhead stack of lava lamps and saw an empty space where the green and blue lava lamp was. I bit my lip and decided I didn’t care. There was no need to get the teenaged mall security guards or any other retail authority involved. In a strange way, I thought he may have deserved it. I looked to Chucky and his plastic doll family. They were neatly set up on the shelf.
I returned the ladder to the backroom and began to think of an excuse for the missing lava lamp.
Adam Matcho writes true stories for the New Yinzer. Names have not been changed and distinguishing characteristics have not been altered. They are all just as guilty as Adam.