Janitors Have It Rough

I've mentioned in a previous blog (The Bartender) about my short-lived job at Shamrock Lanes bowling alley in Airdrie back in the day. I won't use this entry to retread my discontent with that job. I will, however, use this entry to accent that discontent.

Near the end of my tenure as Pin jockey Dave, I was asked to cover more shifts than the usual league nights. I was often asked to cover Saturdays (9-5) and the rare Friday evening. Saturday mornings were the younger group of YBC (Youth Bowling Council) bowlers so it was a deluge of little brats and their cheap idiot parents. But after about 12:00PM, the YBCers screwed off and the lanes were open for public bowling. Public bowling was easily my favourite shift to cover. Joe Everyday never threw the ball hard enough to tangle pins and for the most part public bowlers left their area clean. Furthermore, it was always new people so I never had the opportunity to get to know them and eventually despise them for being bowlers. It was usually good times. Usually.

One Saturday afternoon, I had just finished cleaning the washrooms (Dane Cook has good reason to ask in his act "WHY IS EVERYTHING ALWAYS WET?"). The washrooms were always pretty gross. Especially on league nights when some drunk dickhead would stumble into the washroom and use the ashtray as a urinal. Anyway, as I'm sure you can imagine, it was always a relief when I was finished such an awful task. I returned to the counter and enjoyed the silence of an empty bowling alley. I flipped on the big screen television in the lounge and watched Sliders on satellite (I had an enormous crush on Sabrina Lloyd back then...still kind of do actually). About twenty minutes later, a group of people paraded into the bowling alley. Whenever I saw a parade of people I figured it was going to be bad news, but this time I wasn't so harsh. Most of the people were mentally and/or physically handicapped (or is it handi-able?) and the remaining people were helpers. The mentally and physically challenged (yes, that sounds suitably PC for this post) all seemed to be happy and excited, so I thought it was cool that someone set up an outing for them.

I set up the computers for all the players and bumpers for all the lanes and then sat back to watch the ensuing hilarity. Despite there being four or five lanes active, only one person bowled at any given time while the rest of the group watched (and later applauded the bowl).

You think me cruel to laugh, but these people were the funniest bowlers I've ever seen. I remember one person with Down's Syndrome who was just pacing around while holding a bowling ball - He was slapping the ball with his hand while sticking his tongue out and making deflating-balloon noises. Another person repeatedly tried running down the lane in a fit of anger when he didn't knock down the pins but EVERY TIME would biff out because the lanes were slippery.

At any rate, karma is a bitch and my internal laughter was Type Bad Karma. And payback was swift. About half way through their games, there was one lady whose turn it was to bowl. I remember her well because she ruined my life. She was wearing brown cords and a white-yellow sweater. She had brown hair that was as much a rat's nest as it was human hair. She had Down's Syndrome, but no mental or physical disability was going to spare her my hatred. She walked up to the mark with a ball in her hands. She stood, aimed her ball, and was about ready to bowl.

Out of nowhere, she turned to her handler helper and said "Uh oh." She then dropped the ball on the spot and darted toward the washrooms. At first I thought little of it until some of the other people began to mill around where the girl was standing while making "ewww" noises. One of the helpers came to the counter and said "there's been an accident."

Shit.

Literally.

I walked over to the spot and noticed a puddle of diarrhea where she had been standing. There were then little drops that made a trail from that spot to the washroom where the girl ran. Myself and one of the helpers walked to the washroom. A journey I should have never taken, what I saw still haunts me to this day.

There was this grown women (albeit mentally challenged), crying in the corner of the women's washroom. She had taken off her socks and pants, which were now sitting in the middle of the floor. One sock was clean but the other was completely stained with diarrhea and her pants were wet in appearance along the visible leg...that's right...shit wet.

Worst of all, there was liquid crap EVERYWHERE! I'm not sure what the hell she did, but she seemed to have tried the GAP challenge in the washroom I just cleaned! There were smears and hand prints on all the damn walls and smears all over the friggin' floor (probably from when she took off her clothes and crawled to the corner). Smearing over the stall door in the corner revealed that was the stall she chose to enter to "evacuate" herself. The stall itself was even worse. So bad that I got that dry-heaving, I'm-going-to-throw-up sensation. There was diarrhea all over the floor. A whole bunch of it. Yes, what you're thinking is correct...she ALMOST made it to the toilet, but not quite. That last foot and a half was too much to ask and so she dumped her bowels all over the floor. Ironically, the toilet was still sparking clean aside from some minor splatter at the base.

I kept my cool because the woman was clearly distraught. I left the washroom while the helper dealt with the situation. There were spare clothes in one of the vehicles upstairs (I'm guessing this kind of thing is a regular occurrence?) and so the helper was able to get the woman cleaned up and dressed. The group never finished their games as a result, and they all left right after the woman was dressed.

Yup. The helper person didn't lift a damn finger to clean up the mess. Furthermore, I didn't even get an apology for the nightmare I was going to go through to get that washroom clean again. They just fucked off and left me to clean up the poo. My boss was the only other employee there and he was lazy and a twat. He wasn't going to touch it. If I wanted to keep my job, it was time to get knee-high in crap.

I wrapped a sweater around my head to cover my nose and mouth and I entered the washroom, armed with cleaning supplies. I didn't give a flying fudge about proper cleaning protocol in this instance. I used the mop to wash the floors and walls alike. I assure you, dear reader, that I was not getting any closer to the mess than the length of the mop handle. I cleaned and cleaned and cleaned and after about an hour I had cleaned it all up. I joked earlier about how Dane Cook asked in his act as to why public washrooms are always wet. Now you know. Because some poor bastard had to clean viscous poopies off the walls and floor with a mop. The walls were dripping wet and the floor was slippery as well. I didn't care. I was in there for an HOUR! I put up a wet floor sign outside the washroom door and left it.

As a bit of a "fuck you" to my boss for not helping, I stashed the mop and bucket back in the store room without emptying the filthy poo-water. Take that, Marshall. You pretentious prick! I quit the bowling alley very soon after that day (about a week or so). Not just because I was tired of being an unappreciated shitter-picker-upper but because league bowling season came to a close and there wasn't enough hours of work available to warrant staying.

If ever you have a severely upset stomach and know you'll be having a date with the toilet bowl for a while, please please PLEASE do me a favour and take a trip to Shamrock Lanes. If you pick a day when Marshall is working solo, this would be the greatest revenge a lowly bowling alley employee could ever ask for! And afterward, the Pepto Bismol is on me.

The Great Poopie Caper

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:

"What? AGAIN?"

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?

Waxing Philosophical

During the previous decade, there was something of a tradition among a few of my friends. It was an annual Boxing Day trip, in which I, Shannon, and Bob would travel from Airdrie to Calgary to visit the madness that was the malls. Shannon always brought along some of her own company, but the person whom Shannon invited seemed to change by the year.

Some years the experience was excellent, while other times the experience was less than adequate. For example, one year that we decided to hit the Boxing Day sales, we decided to stop off at Denny's before our adventure. In Denny's, I think I may have been a bit too sarcastic to the server that we had and I'm pretty sure she did something to my apple juice. Now, I would like to keep this entry reasonably classy, so instead of referring to the grumbling and eventual horror show by its actual name, I will refer to it as "waxing philosophically."

After about twenty minutes from when I downed my apple juice, I had the worst case of waxing philosophical that I think I've ever experienced in my life! My stomach sounded like someone blowing bubbles under water. I made a mad dash for the washroom and I'm not going to lie to you...it was a photo finish. I was very fortunate that all that had really been in my stomach was tainted apple juice and water, so there were no offensive odours. However, I can only describe the audio coming from that bathroom as a jet engine while a bird is being sucked through it. Damn, I never knew waxing philosophical could be so loud and embarrassing, but it was. The fella taking a leak at the urinal was probably wondering what the hell I ate that was putting up such a fight.

Anyway, after a tumultuous several minutes, I managed to extricate the philosophies and was comfortable once more. I left the washroom and noticed the stares of those unlucky enough to be put close to the doors.  Ignoring them and hoping there was no leakage on my pants, I returned to the table and proceeded to bitch about the server and her poison apple juice. We left the restaurant soon after. On the way to our first stop, Market Mall, I insisted we stop at a convenience store. I bought a big bottle of Pepto Bismol and would tank back a gulp every little while. It was helping. I wasn't feeling nauseous at all. Dave 1, stupid bitch server 0.

Market Mall was pretty much as expected. Busy, busy, busy. Bob and I were having a good time, usually getting up to mischief since we weren't really interested in shopping and Shannon and company abandoned us to try on clothes they had no intention to buy. However, after a short while, I felt philosophy coming back with a vengeance. The Pepto wasn't working anymore and I knew that I would have to reach a washroom in short order. I told Bob that trouble was brewing, and like a champ Bob ran with me to the loo. I bursted into the stall and got ready to wax philosophical once again. This time it was worse. Like two freight trains sounding horns at the same time while smashing into a school bus full of screaming children with their feet on fire. It was unavoidable.

Now Bob, being arguably one of the best people I know, stepped up in a way I would have never imagined. In order to help drown out the sound of my philosophical waxing, Bob began to engage in hysterical bouts of laughter and screaming. Imagine the Joker and a hyena competing for who can be the most obnoxious and loud and that is what Bob sounded like. I began to laugh and yell as well to further cover up the awful gurgles and plunks from below. It was so epic, made even more epic by the gentleman in the next stall screaming at us:

"Would you guys SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

After about five minutes, I was clear of any remaining philosophy. Bob and I left the washroom in tears from the laughter. I survived the rest of the day without even a glimmer of philosophy. I had survived.

Moral of the story? Don't piss off your server!

And as a final note I must say that I'll never forget what Bob did for me that day. It meant a lot to me, and is great to know that I have a friend true enough to make a complete ass out of himself to help spare me some serious embarrassment. So seriously...thank you Bob. You're the greatest!