The Poo In The Flashlight
He relishes this one.
Let’s get to the poo in the flashlight story. He relishes this one. He was four or five at the time. Can’t remember for sure. It’s winter. He’s wearing a snowsuit. Perhaps like the one in this photo. Playing in the snow with his best friend Mark at Mark’s house. He had to poo. Mark’s mother would not let him in the house. Something about the floors having just been waxed. Perhaps, she thought he was like her son, Mark, who was tortured by false, ah, poo alarms.
Today, 66 years later, their friendship is still going strong. Here they are at Wimbledon. Yes, that is John McEnroe in the middle. No, he’s not friends with McEnroe. He’s not sure he would want to be if the opportunity arose. Mark has the fancy American Express card which brings many perks including the chance to be photographed with McEnroe. He keeps this photo framed on the bookcase directly behind his long desk. He recently asked Mark if he thought McEnroe kept the photo on a bookcase in his office. Mark said, “Damn right.”
Here they are just before the start of the men’s finals. His idol, Roger Federer, was playing Djokovic, whom he loathed. It was 2018, and you probably remember it was an epic final. And devastating. Roger had two match points at 8-7 in the fifth set before losing the match. He truly loves Roger, and, yes, never second-guessed that he could be good friends with him. Perhaps even best friends. Not true of Jerry Seinfeld and Stanley Tucci, both of whom he saw when he was leaving the Wimbledon grounds that fateful day. Oh, he admired them professionally. He just couldn’t imagine what they would have to talk about.
Back to the poo in the flashlight. So, there he was, all two-and-a-half feet of him, desperately having to poo. Years later, when he played high school and college tennis, he was described as gritty and scrappy. What he had in front of him that day was a two block trek to his home in a driving, howling snowstorm. Yes, it would take all that grit and scrap. He valiantly trudged toward his home. He did almost make it - gravity taking its toll at the Pascal’s driveway just one house short of his own. To poo in his pants was unsettling and uncomfortable. He could have blamed Mark’s mother. But, no, this was on him. Just as it was on him not to cry but instead buck up. That’s what he did. He marched through the front door with his head held high right past his two older sisters and straight into the first floor powder room locking the door behind him.
His confidence wavered. Did his sisters really not suspect? Something? Wasn’t their job to watch him like a hawk and pounce whenever they found anything, no matter how microscopic, and relentlessly tease him?
Time was of the essence. He turned to the commode and was flabberghasted to see the toilet seat was heavily taped shut. There was a note on the seat of the commode. He always told people that it read, “out of order.” Recently, he’s considered that he really didn’t know what the note said because he couldn’t read.
Then, the pounding on the door began. His sisters were on to him. “What’s going on? What are you doing? Did you poo in your snowsuit?” How did they know? Really, how did they know? His spirits sank. He started to get that sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. That same stomach where he’s convinced his negative emotions reside. Shame. Embarassment. Mortification. Those same emotions would chronically plague him.
The pounding on the door was relentless. His emotions were exhausting him. Somehow, he mustered the energy to step on the step stool and open up the cabinet over the sink. There it was. The flashlight. The flashlight that held three very large batteries.
He removed the batteries and replaced them with the poo in his pants. He screwed the top of the flashlight back on. Placed the flashlight in the cabinet. Closed the cabinet door. There he was staring at himself in the mirror. Not long. Long enough to think to himself, “Necessity really is the mother of invention.”
He opened the door, and there were his sisters. They didn’t look so tough anymore. He walked right past them. Marched up the stairs into his room, closed the door and collapsed on his bed feeling the ecstasy of relief.
That’s the poo in the flashlight story. As for his sisters, he was wrong. They were still tough. How tough? A few years later, while his parents were out for dinner, his sister, Holly, knocked him out cold. Left him on the floor. Went to her room and wrote their parents a letter that began, “Dear Mom and Dad, I’m sorry I killed your son.”
Do You Know This Man?: An Irreverent Memoir, is an ongoing exploration of the one character who eludes, confounds and mystifies. Me. Right now, it’s available for free, including being able to listen to some of my plays and dive into the best of Sportscape Magazine.
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