Today I was walking in the hall of my apartment building. I was walking to the lobby to get my mail. On the short walk to the lobby, I passed my neighbour's apartment. For some reason, her door was open. On occasion, she has her children or grandchilden over for a visit and today was one of the days when she had the rugrats over.
Anyway, as I walked by her open door, I heard one of the kids. Judging both from the echo, the noise, and what the kid said, the kid was in the bathroom and the bathroom door was open. The toilet flushes as I'm walking and then I hear the kid say "Bye poop. Good bye poop!"
Being a mature 31 year old man, I of course broke out in a bout of hysterical laughter. Shut up. There's something funny about the word "poop," and if you just read what happened, how can you not laugh?
In the lobby, another tenant entered the building while I'm trying to work my mail key into the slot while suffering a case of the giggles. He probably thought I am a nutter, but then again, everyone usually does.
Once the laughter subsided and I had returned to my apartment, I suddenly remembered an event from waaaaaaaay back in my childhood. And now you're gonna hear about it!
When I was about five or six years old, I was a really active kid. I was always outside in the backyard, usually playing with one of my awesome He-Man figures or my hand-me-down Millennium Falcon toy that my cousin reluctantly gave me (actually, my aunt forced the poor guy to hand over all his Star Wars toys to me since he was 12 or so years old). Usually I had a friend over to play, but on the day in question I couldn't find anyone to play, so I just played by myself (giggidy).
My neighbours immediately to the west were a snooty bunch. They were the kind of people who walked with an air of upper crust sophistication, yet they lived in a middle class neighbourhood and thus were not fooling anyone. They were the kind of people who drove a decent car (better than many in the neighbourhood), but nothing very expensive or luxury. They were phonies and poseurs and even at five years old I was on to them.
At any rate, they had an annoying little twat waffle of a daughter. Her name was Marianne. She a year or two older than me. She had black hair, squinty eyes, and a mole on her upper lip that I always thought was a booger. Like her parents, she thought she was god's gift to the world and was a snarky bitch to the other kids in the neighbourhood. We all hated her.
On the day in question, I was, as I said, playing in the backyard alone. While playing, I suddenly had a certain...intestinal requirement. We're just talking a standard everyday requirement. I wasn't ill or with an upset stomach, so it was nothing splish-splash or projectile in nature. I just had to go number two. But I was having fun outside. Why would I want to go inside? I'd have to take off my coat and my shoes, go to the bathroom, do my duty (lawl), and then have to put my coat and shoes BACK ON? No thank you.
I continued to play until the dreaded turtle head began to peek out from below, so I knew it was time. I HAD to go inside...or did I? There was a narrow walkway between our garage and Marianne's family's garage. It was a thin, reasonably enclosed space, and I broke line of sight except for one home across the street. But that was okay because they were old and they were in the backyard of their home. I was good to go...pardon the pun.
I yanked down my drawers and my Superman undies and I squatted down. A kid-sized coil later, I whipped back up my pants and carefully exited the area. I returned to the backyard and continued to play with my toys until dinner.
After dinner, while I was watching television, my dad came into the living room all pissed off. He began yelling at me about some poop that he found behind the garage. I was only five or six, which means my sister was far too young (barely born to a year old) so I couldn't blame her. My dad interrogated me to see if I knew where the poopie came from. Sure, he KNEW it was me. But he wanted me to say so. I, of course, denied it profusely. I first blamed the dog...any dog. But dad wouldn't have that. Dad knew it was a human poo.
So I did what any kid would do in that situation. I blamed Marianne. I said I saw her walk back there earlier while I was playing (Marianne was out in her yard playing with some dolls, so it wasn't too much of a stretch) and I said that she may have done it. My dad asked over and over if it was me and I kept saying no. Eventually he said "Fine, well let's go over to Marianne's house and tell her parents what happened." It was a bluff, right? It had to be! But if he was trying to get me to back down, it wasn't going to happen. As a kid, I was a filthy liar and I wasn't going down without a fight! I agreed and we immediately went outside.
Marianne's dad was in his garage at the time, and my dad told him that one of the kids went to the bathroom between the garages. My dad then told me to tell Marianne's dad what I saw (the lie about seeing her go between the garages). I remember what happened so distinctly because it was the most amazing thing to happen EVER! Her father's reaction to my dad's brief explanation:
As it turned out, Marianne had done the same thing before! He told is that it was probably her again and not to worry about it. My dad and I returned home. I'm not sure what happened with Marianne since our families weren't friends or anything, but I do know that Marianne's dad did hand out spankings when she was bad (that's what she once told me anyway). Did she get an ass-whooping for my poopie? All I know is that I was five and I hadn't yet developed a sense of morality. If she had to get a tanned hide to spare me receiving a similar punishment, then so be it. Better her than me. Come on! She was awful!
So that's another stupid story from my past. If you take nothing else from this story, make sure you always remember that evil can and does indeed win. That makes me a winner!
And you know what? My dad never apologized for accusing me of pooing behind the garage. How rude is THAT?