All this talk about walks of shame has put me in mind of a story from
my time in the third grade. Checkers had become an obsession among
the third graders and we would spend any of our lunch recesses that
were not outside days, all playing one of the six classroom checkerboards. I was
on a winning streak and had just buried a kid who was thought to be
the best in the class but he was only best in the sense that he
combined high level play with being quite popular and that confuses
people into thinking someone is better than they are. I had actually
been feeling a little queasy and I told him I needed to go to the
bathroom and would not be able to rematch him, but he insisted on the
instant rematch and I relented. We had a weird set of rules which did
not compel a player to jump an opponent which could lead to a
stalemate or tie quite often and after being beaten, this boy had
become quite cautious and deliberate in his move choices. This whole
prolonged battle of wits was taking place on top of my rapidly
loosening bowels. There was a little rumbling and then a gurgle and I
tried to concede but he wouldn't allow me. It is hard to imagine that
there was a time in my life that I could be peer pressured into
playing out a game of checkers at the risk of pooping my pants but
there you have the proof constant reader, there you have the proof.
At last there was nothing left to do I was going to blow right there
on the middle of the floor laying on my belly, playing checkers.
Without a word I jumped up and ran out the door. I made it around the
first corner but as I rounded the corner to enter the merciful
sanctuary of the boys restroom, I zigged, and my bowels zagged and
out shot a potential lifetime of shame. That was the type of thing
that a kid would be reminded of for the rest of his school days and
when he was to run into his old friends when they were both middle
aged and playing on the same golf course they would greet him as Mr. Poop-Pants right in front of his best clients who had joined him for
a nice relaxing day out. Then the clients would have their interest
piqued and ask for the story behind the nickname, the shamefully
literal nick name, and Mr. Poop-Pants would have to explain the details
of his pathetic childhood. The clients would most likely laugh it off
but in the deepest part of their brains, the part where they would
like to be the alpha male in the pack, they would know they had seen
weakness and from that day forth have little to no respect for Mr. Poop-Pants. I couldn't risk alienating my best customers like that so
I did the unthinkable for a third grader, I just left. I didn't check
out I didn't tell anyone I just kept running right out the north
doors, across the playground, across the road, I cut across the
vacant field and kept running the two blocks home. I took off all of
my clothes and jumped in the shower in one non-stop motion from laying
on my belly playing checkers to the shower at my house. My teacher
was naturally concerned when her classroom was short a kid after
recess and she started to panic, luckily my mom was home and was able
to tell her I had just run home and that she was sorry but I was very sick
and would not be returning to school. The escape worked perfectly and
I think until this writing only my mom and I knew what happened. I am
not worried about the world learning the truth now because I don't even golf anymore.
