Port-A-Potty Predicament

Tim Garrison PE

(Anyone who's ever spent any time on a construction site will appreciate this. I write a lot of building-related articles. This is the only one my wife (proofreader) forbade me from publishing. Too bad hon, I did anyway. I believe in passing along lessons learned.

As a warning, if you're prone to queasiness at the show "Dirty Jobs" you should probably stop reading now.)

I’m an engineer, so by rights am allowed certain dorky indulgences. Two examples include: my pocket protector - a mid-80’s model, white plastic, the blue ad logo long since worn away, with staples and tape holding it together; and my 1st-generation Blackberry – the kind that is actually black and looks like a block of wood. I wear my Blackberry strapped to my belt on my right side because I’m left handed. It’s a kind of security blanket since my wife won’t allow me to wear my calculator that way any more.

I was at my 13-year-old son’s ballgame the other day. It was hot and I’d been dutifully drinking water. Around the 3rd inning, nature called so to the port-a-potty I went. As I approached the lime-green Ace In the Hole, located just out of play behind 1st base, I was only half watching where I was going because my son was at bat and the other half of my attention was on him. I absently reached for the door and pulled. It had a little catch in the mechanism so I yanked harder and the door popped open. I was startled by a shriek followed by a loud, “JERK!” The door was ripped from my hand by the red-faced woman sitting inside. Somehow I’d not noticed that the “Occupied” icon was displayed.

“Sorry,” I blurted to the door. I toyed with the idea of fleeing so as to avoid the inevitable awkward confrontation. But I waffled too long. The door opened, the woman exited, took two steps, then squared to face me. “You know,” she seethed, “you really should pay attention to the Occupied sign before barging into one of these things. It’s bad enough for a girl to have to use one in the first place let alone being intruded upon by some lecher. I’d probably cuff you one if I weren’t married to you.”

“Gee, I said I was sorry, hon. By the way, Corey struck out.”

“Great,” she grumped and stomped off.

Rattled, I stepped into the unit. I could just have well been stepping into an autoclave. Outside it was 90-degrees and breezy. Inside it had to be 450, with not a wisp of air movement. Heat stroke seemed a genuine possibility, so hastily I turned to the left toward the urinal and unbuckled. Fluid leaked from me like a colander. Also, after a while my seized up plumbing unlocked so that I might execute the mission at hand.

It was then that disaster struck.

Mid-stream, I felt a slight shifting of my belt and then a lightening of weight from my right hip. And then I heard a plastic-on-plastic collision followed by a liquidy kerplunk. Snapping my attention toward the sounds, I watched in horror as my Blackberry blubbed beneath the surface of the bluish-brown fluid in the hole.

I instinctively clamped down on my pee valve which closed with a mighty clang. I then silently cursed my wife. In her haste to rebuke me for an innocent gaffe, she had left the lid up. (I could go into a lengthy grouse on the topic of men vs. women and toilet seats but that might dilute the story at hand.) My Blackberry belt clasp apparently had not developed sufficient friction on its leather counterpart and had slipped through. The rig fell from my hip, bounced on the rim and caromed into the opening, perfectly obeying Newton’s Laws. I then cursed my left-handedness. Had I been right-handed, my Blackberry would have been strapped to my left side and would have fallen benignly to the floor.

Not one to panic, I paused for some analysis. There are two phases of port-a-potty conditions, I thought. Phase 1 shall be called the pre-buildup phase. This is when the unit has been primed with blue solution but has not received sufficient deposits to constitute a buildup. Phase 2 shall be called the growing-mound phase. This occurs when an ample quantity of solids have displaced and absorbed the initial blue solution. Phase 2 is characterized by a pyramidal-shaped heap; invariably the pinnacle being created by someone with dysentery.

The conditions in my case favored a Phase 1, with indications that Phase 2 was not far behind. The question, of course, was should I fish or cut bait? Had it been a Phase 2, the answer would have been obvious: fish. Presumably my Blackberry would have been perched on top of the pile and I could have gingerly plucked it free. A little wiping and all would have been fine. But, alas, I was jinxed with a Phase 1.

How deep to the bottom? I bent over to have a closer look. Unfortunately, the evil liquor was so obscured with flotsam that my vision could not penetrate its depths.

It was then that a second, even more calamitous, disaster struck.

With no warning whatsoever my shirt pocket suddenly lightened. Horror etched my face as my hands groped for my plummeting pocket protector. Like my son moments before, my aim failed and I fanned air. My 25-year-old treasure and the pens and pencils it contained made a perfect swish through the hoop and landed, plop, in the murky juice.

I’m not sure whether I felt more sorry for myself or the youngster who unsuspectingly opened the door at that moment and witnessed a grown man, sweating like a Phoenix brick layer, his pants down, bent over and reaching into a place where even youngsters know never to tread. Apparently I had not locked the door.

Had it been just the Blackberry I probably would have let it lie. But that pocket protector had been with me since grad school - through two marriages, two kids, and three or four businesses. That kind of sentimental value doesn’t come along every day and it certainly can’t be bought at the Sprint Store. So plunge I did and was lucky enough to grab both items on the first attempt. It turns out the liquid was only about three-inches deep. The kid at the door blanched, slammed it back shut, and sprinted away fearing for his life.

It’s now a few weeks later and I have a new Blackberry, which, by the way, is blue. I think I’ll call it “Blueberry”; maybe get a rise out of my kids. It is sleek and sexy, and, to my wife’s delight, didn’t even come with a belt clip. So how am I supposed to transport this thing - in my pocket? Talk about a disaster waiting to happen! I could accidentally sit on it, or worse, if riding in my front pants pocket, it could poke my groin.

I am happy to report that my pocket protector still proudly adorns my shirt pocket every day. I cleaned and sanitized it, of course. It’s been through so much, well, let me put it this way, neither Timex (It takes a licking…) nor Samsonite (Gorilla-proof…) have a thing on this future family heirloom. It is my dork badge, my good luck charm, my Ace In the Hole, if you will.

eisert

Funny, but ICK!

J F

can someone post the cliffs notes version?

maleko

Dude, Theres no way in hell i would stick my hand anywhere near the toilet seat, let alone bend over and stick my hand in there, Screw the phone, let alone a couple pencils or pens...
you lucky that little boy who witnessed your tea bag swinging in the breeze didnt tell his parents .
Hopefully you didnt have any open cuts or sores..
go to the doctor and get some sort of shot. The anit pop shot.... Geez..

Meetre

True or not, very funny!

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Tom R

A great story that is somehow able to over-ride even it's own yechh-factor!!

jtpro

I have 250 contacts on my phone and would still hesitate to "go fishing"

Tipping it over would be my first thought.(If Any)

I won't even share stories of the worst port-a-potties (aka Shi# cookers I've seen.)

Tscarborough

FYI for future incidents, grab the plastic bag out of one of the handy trash cans and use it as an arm condom.

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jtpro

THAT'S thinkin' with your dipstick Jimmy!

TempestV

I've worked with this one guy that about lives on his cell phone. If we aren't working at that moment (lunch, break, after work, ect) it's just constant text messages. Anyways, he was out of town on a job for a week, and he dropped his phone in the blue (more of a brown on this job actually) on monday morning, and even he didn't try to get it out. I can't really fault him, I wouldn't go after mine either, and my ruggedized phone probably has one of the best chances of surviving of any phone out there.

PrecisionFloors

I love that damned commercial...cracks me and my 10 year old son up every time we see it. Maybe I'm still 10...

To the OP:

Absolutely hilarious. You are a sick man. Welcome aboard

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loneframer

I think if my dipstick touched that devils brew, I'd consider lopping it off and cutting my losses. Forget about a phone or a few writing utensils. It ain't happenin'.

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Tinstaafl

Allowed? Expected would be more like it.

Very well written, Tim, and I was relating all the way. My right-side adornment is a Leatherman, which has the same tendency to slide off an unfastened belt. Fortunately, it's never managed to land in one of those things!

AmeliaP

You are a brave man. I can't even go in a Port-A-Potty, except at weddings when they have those spiffy flusher ones. I start dry heaving before I even get the door open.

Resta

I may admit. Fished twice. For my wallet and HO keys.

KentWhitten

I always fear that when I go in those. I always shut the lid....always. I don't want no fishing expedition in the deep blue sea.

Say....maybe this is you

http://www.firstcoastnews.com/news/s...?storyid=40819

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samccard

I think I will always close the lid after reading this.

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Tom Struble

i always close it with my foot anyway

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jbfan

Reminds me of the time in the army, late one night, dropped my red lens flashlight.
You could see the potty light up 50' away.

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