I bet I was seven or eight years old. That would have been like 1988 or 89, but it was definitely the summer; I remember that much. For some reason I remember watching part of a Star Wars movie that afternoon. I must've gotten bored because next thing I know, I found myself outside with my brother probably playing on the swing set or something. All of a sudden we heard a voice, the voice of a child. It was playful, and had a jolly or goofy sound to it. Turns out it was our new neighbor over there on the other side of the fence.
His name was Joel, and he was like four or five. Definitely younger than us. He had just moved in, so we didn't know him very well. Nevertheless, he asked if we wanted to play on his swing set, so we climbed the fence to go from playing on our swing set, to playing on his swing set. I don't remember much about the swing set because we were not on it for very long. Then he asked us if we wanted to come in and play. If I knew then what I know now about the events that would unfold upon entering that house, I surely would have made up some excuse about having to go home for supper.
Obviously being blind to the immediate future (and beyond), we went in to play, and wound up playing in his basement. It was a pretty sweet set up - nice soft carpet, a cool plastic jungle jim thing, buncha toys, pretty awesome setup for an only child and neglectful parents. The carpet though, it stuck out in my mind because it was so velvety soft, and that tan color. Oh man, it was like caramel.
That little dude had a sweet cache of He-Man toys: He-Man, Skeletor, the whole lot, even that weird felt dude that smelled like the woods. He had the castle, he had GI Joes, MASK, all the good stuff that an 80s kid with lots of toys would have. But then the good times quickly faded into not super good times. Joel shit himself.
It's true. It wasn't like an immediate fart blast that everybody heard, laughed about, and then verbally wondered if it was a #FartPlus, a straight up shart, full on self-shitting incident, or a false alarm. No this was a briefly subtle scent that wafted to us, as if the stench itself wanted to be discovered. Unfortunately, My brother and I are not in the stench-discovering business, and it must have taken a while, because as I think back about the five or so minutes prior to the first scents, I can see it all so clearly.
Joel did have a brief pause and giggled to himself. I just thought it was because he was pumped that he grabbed the Skeletor toy that nobody was playing with. Turns out, it was the little-kid enjoyment of that sweet release of a turd into the loose-fitting reigns of underwear, rather than pinching out a coil into the soft, smushy, bear-hug of a diaper.
We played on, hoping, assuming, praying, that it was just a fart. Without us having to ask, as the stink lingered, Joel just came out and said, in a child-like playful fashion, "I pooped my pants". And then with sudden adult-like clarity and maturity, Joel followed up with, "You can't tell my parents". That took us all, even him, by surprise. The irony here is obvious: the opposite of the elegant and professional delivery of a message constructed for the simple mind of youth.
Nevertheless, you can imagine the predicament this put me in. I was the oldest of us three under-nine kids, playing together alone in the basement, which made me the default leader in this trio. This was my time to shine, to take charge. So what do I do? I obviously ask if we can see the turd.
Knowing that he did not want us to get his parents, our minds raced into problem-solving mode. Maybe his bedroom is down here so we can get some clean undies? But then what about the poop & dirty underwear? Maybe there is a bathroom down here? Can we sneak upstairs and clean this mess up on the lowlow? The more time we debated what to do, the more time Joel spent in his current soiled state.
Sometimes you just gotta rip the band aid off, so finally my brother and I mustered up enough courage to just go upstairs and tell his parents that their son had pooped his pants. It was a slow walk up the steep, carpeted stairs. The weight of the message we felt we had to deliver made the steps feel almost like quicksand. I recall having flashes of being in a desert.
We got to the top of the stairs, which opened into the kitchen, and then immediately to the right was the living room where the parents were watching TV. I don't recall what was on - a show, a movie, no idea. I just remember stepping into the hallway and seeing the TV screen clearly, with each parent in a recliner on opposite sides of the TV. After what seems like an eternity to climb the stairs, we were now staring down what looked like the longest hallway in the world. The light at the end of this tunnel was a TV. Seems about fitting for the 80s.
The whole time here, Joel was downstairs, languishing in his shit-filled underwear. And my brother and I were spending an inordinate amount of time bickering about what to do. With the proper context, sometimes our problems can seem so trivial.
We finally made our way to the parents, and when we got there, we stood behind them, silently, unnoticed, still out of view. The parallels to my adult life here are uncanny. Do I wait for a commercial, do I just go for it? What is the protocol here? I remember looking at my brother for confirmation that this was something we had to do. He nodded affirmatively. Joel's parents still had no idea we were there. I swallowed, and it must have been loud enough for the mom to hear, as her head twitched. But not loud enough to capture any attention. So I went for it. I looked down at the ground and sheepishly blurted out
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