Tin Out House

The energy feels better in this Starbucks so I think I'll take a moment, record some thoughts, wayward experiences. There aren't any ambiguously homeless individuals clamoring for my attention at my counterside stead.

We'll see how long that lasts.

A few weeks ago, I spent seven days in Portland, OR for a writing workshop. Hands down, these were the best days of my life.

But weren't you irked and driven to insanity by the pretentiousness of your peers?

By the unfounded overconfidence and egoism of the writers on faculty?

What about hippietastic Reed? That didn't bother you either?

No, none of this bothered me. I felt warmed by my surroundings and enthralled by the "real" writers in my presence. I even asked for their autographs.

Best of all were my workshop peers. Their eagerness to push themselves inspired me to do the same. Some pushed themselves in directions I never thought I'd ever see.

For instance, one night after the reading I came upon a generous surprise in a very public campus bathroom.

Come with me to the bathroom, for a moment. I'll show you what I saw.

I escaped quickly from the open amphitheater where the reading happened. There weren't many people on my tail as I approached the bathroom. Just me and the sinks, I imagined.

I pushed open the door. A voice rose.

"Oh. My. God. It smells soooooooo oooooo oooooooooo bad in here." The valley called, they're missing their idiot?

She stood next to the sinks, directly across from a friend, frozen or paralyzed or dead by the horrible stench consuming every air bubble of the room. She didn't let her friend agree, disagree, blink, cough, breathe.

Urgently: "There is, like, a GIANT poo in the handicap stall." Such vivid word choice. A fiction writer, no doubt.

Disoriented by a) the overwhelming smell of human feces, b) the prospect of a live poo outside of its destined receptacle, I stepped toward the handicap stall and peered in. There was no time to process the ramifications of such actions.

It was a foot long with massive girth and stranded at least a foot and a half from the glistening porcelain bowl. Two squares of one-ply tissue paper covered a fraction of its dimensions. A discreet move, clearly.

The two girls left and laughter burst from me. An explosion. I covered my mouth as I relieved myself, wondering if another woman enters this bathroom, would she blame me for the remote turd?

I composed myself and left the bathroom and didn't speak a word of it to anybody. Not even the five people who tried to talk to me on the bus ride home. Though I should have told them.

The next afternoon

Some of us sat around a large round table eating lunch. Scarlett* told us about the bad dreams she had the night before.

"Really?" said Mary. "My roommate said that she had very strange dreams, too. But I think her dreams had something to do with an incident."

My ears perked up. "What kind of incident?"

Mary took a moment to respond and slowly began. "Well, last night, after the reading..."

"Yes..."

"...well, she went to the bathroom..."

"She went to the bathroom?" This incident sounded familiar, deja vu?

"Yes, and she went into one of the stalls." She paused. Scarlett and I looked at her, wide-eyed.

"She saw a ... bowel movement on the floor."

I jumped out of my chair. "She saw a bowel movement on the floor!" I began to laugh hysterically to the point where I almost cried and relieved myself right there at the lunch table.

Scarlett and Mary exchanged glances at each other, politely waiting for my maniacal laughs to calm.

"No, no. I saw this bowel movement, too, but I didn't have any bad dreams because of it."

"Could it be the same bowel movement?" An inquiring mind.

"I sure as hell hope so. Here's my story." I told them what I just told you.

When I finished laughing/crying/squealing, Stanley said, "It seemed like you were laughing about something this morning when I saw you."

"Well, I didn't want to tell anyone about it because I didn't know who did it. What if one of you did it and I made a joke about it?"

They looked at me and burst into laughter, no, guffaws. "But someone shit on the floor," Stanley pointed out.

"Yes, I know, but what if someone couldn't help it. What if someone was sick?"

Mary, with sympathetic nods, cooed, "Oh, Nicole, that's so considerate of you to think that way."

I guess this means I'm special. What do you think?

All I know is the Mad Shitter may strike again. Probably at Starbucks.

*I've changed the names to protect the innocent.