An Odor Runs Through It

Cerrillos, New Mexico

Porta Potties are only one step above coffins (as far as my reluctance to enter one goes). One needs to be beyond desperate. Life must hang in the balance. The choice to enter must truly be the lesser of two evils, and there’s nothing much worse than that (though I have a good story about a near disaster on the side of the highway, which I alluded to months ago in a post).

I wonder what we’d come up with if we solicited porta-potty horror stories? Ah heck, let’s not wonder, I’ll just go first. I was on vacation in New Mexico last year. We were day tripping and had stopped in Cerrillos (pr. sir-REE-yos) which is an old mining town where they shoot western movies from time to time. The town was cool but very old. – (Skipping to the good part now) Keep in mind, a New Mexico trip means overdosing on Mexican food 24/7 Ok? Anyway, nature calls – with a bullhorn – we’re in a spot where you’d have about as much of a chance finding a public toilet as you would finding an espresso.

I say to the storekeeper selling faux Indian arrowheads and rattlesnake skins, who looks like trapper-Dan with no teeth, “Um, do you have a toilet? I gotta go!”

Storekeeper spits into the spittoon and waves his thumb towards the wall behind him. “Gotta go out back. There’s an outhouse in the yard at the end of the store. Gotta go through the little gate, an make sure ya close it good. Don’t let m’dog out. An don’t worry, she won’t bite cha, she’s real friendly! She loves people!”

Me: “Thanks!”

I do that funny walk you do (which needs no further description) out to the gate and stop staring horrified! The back yard is a junkyard that you’d have to be insane to cross. I’m calculating the odds of me getting to the pot alive vs. being crushed by scrap metal that decides it’s time to fall over. The toilet is at the far end of the yard, and there’s a skinny Doberman that clearly hasn’t eaten in months (which is about to change I fear). This is my brain talking now – “Shit your pants or get eaten by a dog. Shit your pants or get eaten by a dog.” And now I hear toothless in my head “She’s real friendly!”

I open the gate gingerly and step inside and am immediately overwhelmed by the smell of dog-shit. It’s a hundred-fucking-degrees and I’m retching on the smell of crap, which is further stimulating my bowels – the gurgling has started. This is my brain again “You’re going to shit your pants AND get eaten by a dog!” I do a quick frog-march double-time through the junk-yard, avoiding piles of dog-shit like land-mines and approach the outhouse without having aroused the attention of the Doberman. Perhaps it’s the heat – she’s resting under the back of a rusted out pick-up truck and is clearly watching me. This is my brain again, “Well at least if you have an accident, nobody will notice. Christ you could die in here an nobody would notice!” I stop eight feet from the outhouse and panic, because now I can smell it over the stench of the dog-shit, and I’m scared – scared that I’ll go inside, reach the no turning back point and discover that in Cerrillos, it’s BYOTP. My bowels are urging me forward. My gut is threatening and now I’m sweating bullets, as last night’s double burrito with green chilies and a healthy side of refried beans demands acknowledgment.

I have to stop walking and wait, as a wave of cramps passes through me. I hold onto the top of an old washing machine for support as I fight the pressure within. I curse myself for not having taken care of business at the last rest stop and earnestly begin negotiations with Satan. This is my brain again, “Dear dark father of the underworld and all that is evil, I apologize for everything! Please get me out of this fucking junk-yard with clean underwear! I know I’ve promised you my soul a million times before but this time I abso-fucking-lutely mean it!” A wave of nausea confirms that Satan isn’t taking requests today. After the wave passes I tip-toe with my knees locked tightly together the rest of the way to the chamber of death.

I draw a ridiculously deep breath and tug open the rusted door. Oh I’m sorry, did I call it a door? Ha ha ha ha ha! Silly me! It’s not a door! It’s just a rusted out piece of sheet metal that’s magically attached on one side by something hinge-like that breaks every law of physics. It’s more like a sideways man-hole cover than a door. Anyway, I open the door (At this point you have to insert the shrieking violins from the Psycho bathroom scene where Janet Leigh buys it in the shower) – My jaw is resting on my shoe. My world no longer makes sense. If I could talk, I’d speak in tongues.

I hear it first – the sound of a million flies buzzing impossibly in my head – then I see it – the swarm. A dark shimmering fucking swarm of flies so thick you can’t see to the back of the stall. They rise up demonically out of the toilet – out of the hole underneath what I assume is supposed to be the toilet - and descend upon me. At the same time I feel it – the heat – it’s a million fucking degrees in this shit-hole and it’s unbearable! It must be 150 degrees in there. Clearly, this is the portal to hell itself! Had I not been somewhat desensitized by the overwhelming smell of the dog-shit during my trek to the can, I surely would have either vomited or died upon smelling what I was now smelling (though vomiting or dying was still a very good idea!)

The sheer number of flies accompanied by the unearthly buzzing sound left me frozen still and horrified. Unexplainably, my eyes darted around to see if there was any toilet paper inside (as if going in there and squatting over the gates of hell was even an option still!). There was a roll. It was on the floor. And it was vile. There was no way it was going to happen here, in this place, with the stench and the flies for company.

Perhaps it was shock and horror that caused the call of nature to retreat; perhaps Satan got my message after all! But for no clear reason, the urge – the need – the potty emergency had passed, completely! I’d been spared. I was going to live! I was going to get out of that god-forsaken-shit-hole in one piece and not covered in shit.

I turned around and there was the Doberman. Her nose was less than an inch from my crotch. I drew in a sharp breath, but before I could pet her or say “Nice doggie!” she drove her nose into my groin with a surprising amount of force and made a snorting sound. Then she abruptly lifted her snout up and into my groin even harder. I winced and reflexively drove my palms down to block her from doing that again. That’s when I noticed it. The dog was filthy. Not just filthy, covered in shit. I’d had enough. I turned around quickly and tap-danced my way though the dog shit minefield back to the “safe” side of the gate – the friendly shit-encrusted Doberman hot on my tail the entire way.

Yes, I made it out alive. But at what cost? I constantly worry now that one day Satan will show up to enforce the contract. Luckily, I know a couple of good lawyers.

by d.tkon