One Lane Over
Today I shit myself on the way home from work. I got stuck in traffic.
The day started out like any other day. I got up, ate my cereal, and I went to work. When lunch rolled around the day changed. One of the girls in the office asked me to have lunch with her. I don’t know her very well, and I think she might have a crush on me, but I’m not sure. She paid, which was great, and she left me alone for the rest of the day, which was even better.
At lunch I ordered a seafood soup because I like clams and shrimp. The soup was really good, but it was too big to eat at one time. I took the rest of the soup that I didn’t eat back to my desk in a styrofoam cup and snacked on it during the afternoon. I only did this because the soup didn’t smell; I hate it when someone eats tuna or something else smelly at his desk.
By four o’clock I had eaten the rest of the soup, and all that was left in the cup were a few clam shells and parts of a crab claw. As I scooped up the last of the broth I noticed that it was oily and garlicky. Good stuff, Maynard. Good stuff. By five o’clock I was tossing the cup into the giant trash bag by the elevators and heading down to my car. I felt fine.
Fast forward to five-thirty. I am now in traffic and on Connally Loop, and the traffic is backed up. I am unable to get over to my exit lane. And that’s when it hits me – I have to dump and I have to dump now. The rumbling in my lower regions is so bad that I have to raise my ass off the car seat. The cramps cause me to inhale and exhale like I’m in labor.
When the fart escapes I can’t believe how bad it smells. I know at this point that I have sharted my shorts because the fart feels less like a fart and more like I’ve oiled my ass and happened to fart at the same time. The fart is secondary. My windows are up and the air conditioning is on because it’s hot, but the car begins to smell so bad that I debate which is worse, the smell or the heat.
I decide to brave the smell. It’s over ninety degrees outside.
As traffic begins to move I make a break for the right lane, and as I shift gears it happens – I pull my right foot off the gas and lose control of my butt muscle. I crap my pants. I think a bullfrog is in my shorts. Brapping ripples through my shorts, my pants, and reverberates throughout the interior of the car. On impulse I look to my left, wondering if anyone next to me has seen that I’ve shit myself. I don’t know why I do this. No one could tell if I just shit myself… unless I have “I just shit myself” face.
I guess I don’t. The guy next to me is talking into his Bluetooth and thankfully by now I’m in the right lane, one exit past my usual exit.
I drive the extra two miles back to my usual route with liquidy shit now creeping up my back and causing my butt and thighs to squelch together. What is this doing to my car seat? Son of a bitch.
I have an incredibly hard time sneaking up to my apartment without being seen; surely the guy in the parking lot saw the wet patch covering my crotch, ass, and legs. As I sneak up the steps I wonder if I’m leaving a trail. I can feel something soaking into my socks.
It takes me an hour to clean myself up and air out my car. My car, by the way, stinks. It will take me days to get rid of the stink and polish the seat.
On a whim, I text my co-worker and ask if she felt alright after lunch. She responds that she feels just fine and asks why.
There’s no way I’m going to tell her why.