Wednesday, September 19, 2018

I Hear That Train A-Comin'

My personal physical plant had been popping along like a Swiss watch for a long time, and then, the other night, just before dawn, I awoke to a Disturbance In The Force. I returned to sleep with the expectation that whatever it was would have resolved by morning. But by the time I got up, nothing had changed. There was still a Disturbance In The Force. In fact, I could pinpoint its location.

A key element was missing from my morning ablutions.

An hour later, even after coffee, it was still missing.

By noon, I wouldn't have been surprised if a porcupine crawled out of my butt trailing a string of horse chestnuts. Relieved, yes, but not surprised. But it was not to be.

I must pause in this report out of a sense of delicacy. This might surprise you. I am well enough known for my regard for the subject of digestive output that complete strangers have sent me photos and articles about poop. But here's the thing. I may monitor it, and report on it, and crow about spectacular individual achievements, and Dave and I may maintain a lexicon of descriptors that we use regularly, as it were, but the actual performance of my daily opus is very private. I don't want you there. I don't even want Dave there, and fortunately, Dave doesn't want Dave there either, or he'd totally be there, trying to get a rise out of me. For all my interest and curiosity, my Key Element is deeply personal.

Yes, I am the one waiting you out in the next stall over, hoping you'll flush so I can blast out a boomer.

And so I return to the matter at hand, bleakly but obliquely.

......................................

The train arrives at the station every morning, right on time. Everyone is on the platform, cheering and waving handkerchiefs. The engine pulls up with its cars, two, three, occasionally more, all in a measured pace, a triumph of civilization.

Until the day it doesn't. On the platform, we peer into the distance and check our watches. There is mumbling. The phone in the stationmaster's office rings once, and the rumors begin. There has been an incident. A derailment possibly; one or more cars are on fire. There's smoke in the distance. It's still as death, and getting warmer, with not a breeze to be found. We wait on the platform, trading a word here and there at first, and then trailing off, and one by one we curl up on the benches, silent with dread.

A day passes. Passengers from the tragic event begin to lurch toward us on foot, lugging their sorry suitcases, one by one, or in small groups, damp and dispirited. Then a few more. We begin to sit up on the benches, craning into the distance, scanning for survivors. Another day passes. Reunions occur in spotty bunches on the platform and, relieved, the crowd thins. Is everyone accounted for?

The tracks have been cleared. We who remain put an ear to the empty rails and hear the distant rumble of an approaching train. The wind kicks up. It's coming at last.

You probably heard all about it. It was all over the papers.

41 comments:

  1. There's nothing like being locked into a Stall Stalemate, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

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    1. Used to be, you could reach behind (ahem) and provide your own cover by flushing your own toilet at the opportune time. (Seriously--just because you flush, it doesn't mean you have to leave!)

      These days, however, I'm never sure HOW to get the darn thing to flush. I usually have to be halfway out the door before it'll respond and clear away the evidence.

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    2. Or it flushes as soon as you enter the stall and then as if you've used your allotted flush, it won't flush again.

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    3. Yes. Aggravating. There are things I prefer to take into my own hands. Which reminds me of David Sedaris's story of meeting someone who told him he tries to catch his own poop to lower it into the water so it doesn't splash. Sedaris declined to shake his hand.

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    4. There's a mental image I wish I hadn't read (*~*)

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    5. After a midnight arrival at Wilmington, NC’s little airport, I entered a stall in the ladies. I could one other person was there. Enthroned in my cubby, I somehow triggered one of those crazy continual flush malfunctions by just being there. It got a bit wild and wet before I gave up altogether, exiting the stall while the commode continued its hissy fits one after another. I was aware of the other woman as we both washed up, so I said something lame about allergic reactions in porcelain fixtures. She said a syllable or two that sounded familiar, and I looked up into the eyes of a favorite actress. That could have all gone either much better, or much, much worse.

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    6. Names. We need names. Um, do you suppose the smart toilets are so smart they can sense who is going to need a whole lot of flushing?

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  2. Sorry to hear that you were anal retentive. You are truly a master of disemboweling prose and that the train finally offloaded its freight. Hopefully you will continue to stock the pond with brown trout until the Browns go to the Super Bowl.

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  3. Peristalsis is an iffy thing. Is the pancake place at the end of the Ross Is. bridge still there? I bet breakfast there would hurry things along.

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    1. I don't know if it is or not. What if the pancakes just stay behind the logjam? That would be dreadfuler.

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  4. Much sympathy from one with GI issues. The opposite problem is no fun either.

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    1. It is not. Although that's closer to my tendency. This one came on with an actual low-grade fever, and I took to my bed for the greater part of a day. What the hell was that about?

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  5. Sigh. My train refuses to keep to a time-table. Or if there is one, refuses to make it available.

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  6. Authentic Steel-cut Oatmeal, slow cooked. We make up a big batch once a week, and reheat portions every morning. Seems to make the trains run on time.....Any other oatmeal product doesn't perform half as well as the real thing.

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    1. I have that every single morning, with blueberries and almonds, and I hardly EVER have this problem. I think I got into something prickly.

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    2. Stir a couple of teaspoons of psyllium husk into the mix every morning, your train will run much more smoothly, like you've sandpapered the rails.

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    3. I was with you until "sandpapered."

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    4. Polished, instead then. Sandpapered so smooth it's like they're polished.

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  7. My train is definitely not an express train. It makes several local stops at various hours of the day... and unfortunately sometimes during the wee hours as well. What part of the phrase "wee hours" does it not understand?

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    1. ...I was actually thinking you didn't really mean "wee" hours...

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    2. I'm actually thinking she really DID mean "wee" hours. That's pretty much all *I* want to commit to at that time of night/morning. My brain isn't clear enough to spend more than a few moments on the seat. Later in the day, I have the mental acumen to solve Sudokus or word games, but not at 2 or 3 in the morning!

      Jeez--how is it I can be this candid with complete strangers (Hi Nann!)?

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    3. Exactly! I hardly need to wake up for "wee." Anything that keeps me up longer than that wakes me up to the point that I can't get back to sleep again. Which is a whole 'nother issue with me....

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    4. I get up to go to the bathroom (either number) maybe once a year. My prostate must be world-class.

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  8. I do hope your train returns to it's regular scheduled time table. There's nothing worse than being unable to make plans because you're waiting around for something to arrive.

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  9. I give Himself one or two dates each morning- the fruit, not the scheduled meeting- and he says the uh, train schedule
    remains accurate.

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  10. I will never be able to use a train metaphor again.

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    1. Well--I guess I can do what I want because it's my, uh, platform!

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  11. I am waiting for the day an uncontrollable urgency hits during my 75 minute bus commute. I’ve been known to call in sick if I even suspect my condition is less than acceptable in that regard.

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    1. I kept extra underpants in my locker at work. And have more than one Urgency On The Route story.

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  12. David Sedaris also said he conversed by phone with his sister who chats on the toilet and she says her grunts are her trying to open a pickle jar.

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  13. You deserve a Pulitzer for this!

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