I can’t remember exactly what cross country trip this was, but to try to date it – my parents were still married; my younger brother was on the planet (6 years my junior) but he was human larvae; my white tube socks with the 2 horizontal bands at the top were almost to my knees (that was in style); and roller skate wheels weren’t in a single line, but positioned at each quadrant of your foot. I think it might have been the move from Cedar Rapids to Idaho Falls. New job for Dad. I must have been about 7.
At any rate, my Dad did not like to stop for potty breaks. His work around for avoiding a potty stop was to have an empty 2 pound coffee can in the back of the station wagon. If somebody had to go, crawl in the back and do your business in the coffee can – which is an assholishness thing to make your family do. It always stuck with me that I was afraid to ask him to stop if I had to go, because he’d start yelling and bitching about it. I guess it was good for me to go through that, because I never did it to my own family. We always stopped when somebody needed anything – period.
OK. Back to the story. Before too long I had to go, so I got in the very back seat, pulled my shorts down and went to work.
Within about 5 seconds, my Dad starts yelling.
“What the hell is that smell? Did somebody just shit in here? Gawdammit!”
I sat there with the thin rim of the coffee can cookie cutting a painful circle on my ass cheeks for a couple seconds before saying, “Um, me…”
“Why did you do that?”
“Dad, you said if anybody had to go to the bathroom, they should use the can in the very back seat.”
“I didn’t mean taking a shit! I meant taking a piss!”
“Oh…”
Dave: I laughed till I cried. Aunt kis