#coloringin @ehoyle @_little_mel_ @plingyplang
Dear Lord, let this next week pass quickly. Let no one give me a pat on the back, brush against my shoulder, Or, for reasons unforeseeable at …
One of my pieces was recently featured on a much better website than the one you’re reading now.
Last week the New York Post published a story about a man police believed was threatening to detonate a bomb on the Williamsburg Bridge. The real story, however, was even more bizarre. In reality, there was no bomb, just a “crazy guy who defecated on the bridge.”
I am that “crazy guy.” This is my side of the story.
. . . . . . .
I thought I would make it to work. At least across the bridge. To a Starbucks where I could take care of the business that their business triggers everyday at about oh I’d say 25 minutes after my last sip.
But today was different. It was an anomaly.
It must have been the yogurt and granola.
I was walking to work on a sunny morning. The Williamsburg Bridge was packed with people who had the same idea and I was enjoying a This American Life podcast. The one about the kindness of strangers.
I was almost halfway across when I felt the first rumble. Oooo. I kept walking. Then I felt it again. Awww, that’s not good. Each ache felt like a burst of a blender. I kept walking. Then another burst struck. Then another. I winced with each churn, quickening my steps to Starbucks. Then I was hit with The Rumble. A coffee-yogurt-granola-blueberry tornado churning, churning churning in my gut.
I leaned against the fence to wait for it to pass. Slowly, my stomach eased to a stop. Shit man, this isn’t good.
I continued my trek. Slowly, carefully, quickly. I was still about half way across the bridge.
Then it struck again. A grinding flip. Grind, grind, grind FLIP. Grind, grind, grind FLIP. Aww fuck, no no no as I held onto the fence. Fuck man, fuck.
I evaluated my spot on the bridge. I should go back to my apart - Awwww - fuck! Damnit. Shit. I tried breathing slowly. It didn’t help.
Get it together. C’mon. You’re fine. Aww.
I turned around and began walking back to my apartment. Teeth grinding from the pressure below. Quick steps. Beads of sweat on my brow. Breathing slow.
Then I was hit with another huge flip. AWWWW fuck! Fuck. Fucking dammit shit - cuntface! I moaned.
The pain was unbearable and my apartment was too far. Panic set in.
This has to happen RIGHT NOW. Fuck. Beads of sweat glistened on my brow. No, I can’t. I can’t do this. Rumbling. What if someone sees me? Grind, grind FLIP. Fuuuuuuck!
The pain was too great.
I knew what I had to do.
I had to ignore every social code I’ve learned in the past thirty years.
I had to suppress my dignity and I’m certain you would have done the same.
Because there was no more denying it.
I had to pull down my pants and take shit on the Williamsburg Bridge.
And it had to happen right now.
Leaning against the fence, I looked to my right: no one. To my left: two Hasidic women, forty yards away. Shit fuck. Hurry the fuck up.
They were 35 yards away.
Goddammit please. Please hurry the fuck up you dumb cunts!
You motherfucking…slowpokes. You’re slowpokes!
I’m going to shit my pants. Is that what you want? I’m going to shit my fucking pants like a fucking toddler.
Fucking walk you slow fucking pokes - Fuck you!
Finally they passed.
“‘Morning,” I said.
I don’t know why I reached for my backpack but I did.
And I don’t know who I thought would see me fiddling with my shoelaces and think, “well that guy’s just tying his shoes. Anyone can see that.” But that didn’t stop me from fake tying my shoes two or three times.
As I knelt in a ball of patheticness I quickly emptied my backpack. I removed my laptop, my book and a few pens that I like. I then fiddled with my laces again to make sure onlookers knew that I was just tying my shoes.
Alright, let’s do this. Am I really going to do this? Fuck, man. Holy shit this has to happen now. Still kneeling, I unbuckled my belt, button and unzipped my fly. I pulled my pants down to my knees then covered my exposed end with my backpack.
Then, on a Wednesday morning at 9:15am, on my way to work, I defecated into my backpack in the middle of the Williamsburg Bridge.
I’m not proud this.
I feel bad for ruining every onlooker’s commute to work, and I feel bad for the parents who had to explain the unexplainable situation to their children. I also really liked that backpack.
But I stand by the fact that there was nothing else I could do.
The operation took less than 25 seconds. I buttoned up quickly.
I then zipped my backpack and waited for the cars below to pass. I knew I only had one shot at this and it wouldn’t be easy: I had to clear a tall fence then two lanes of traffic to get it into the river.
The bag-o-poop cleared the fence. And the first lane. Then hit the road barrier, flopped back into the street, and laid to rest in the second lane.
A car ran over it.
Then another did the same.
Well, I tried.
. . . . . . .
The police officers were understanding. They had never heard of a non-homeless person pooping on the bridge, but they were surprised they hadn’t. They also appreciated the fact that I used a bag. But more than anything they were relieved that the bag wasn’t a bomb. I hadn’t thought of that.
In the end they shook their heads and handed me a 153.09: Health Code violation. $150 fine.