Snakes on a Plane

We had been sitting on the runway waiting to take off for more than three hours when the captain finally turned off the fasten-seat-belt sign. I pushed past the newspaper-snapping fat man in the aisle seat and made for the lavatory. It was 7 pm and, to put it delicately, my special time of the day. I needed to drop off the kids, make a deposit, vote for the governor, lay some cable, do my business, take a dump. Unfortunately, I wasn't the only one with elimination on my mind. I was eighth in a line of just about everybody on the plane. I stood in line, trying not to too obviously do the "I need to poop right now dance." I was also somewhat worried that if I didn't get in to the lavatory soon, I would experience that strange phenomenon: losing the urge to go. I've never really understood how that happens, but it does. Hold it in for too long, and it decides to stay with you indefinitely. This would be very inconvenient, as I was planning on eating at some fine restaurants in Chicago and wanted to have plenty of "room."

I made it to the lavatory without losing it (in any sense of the word). I did my business without incident. I stood and flushed the toilet as I did up my jeans. I washed my hands, put on some lip gloss, smoothed my hair back. I really felt like a new woman. And then, as I was preparing to open the door, I glanced down at the toilet. My object was still there! I flushed again. Are you familiar with how airplane toilets work? As the water begins to flow into the bowl, the whole bottom of the toilet just sort of flips down and whatever objects might be sitting on it are washed away by the flow of the water. Then the bottom returns to the preflush position. Well, after I flushed, the water began to flow, but the bottom of the toilet only moved down about an inch and then it stopped. So the water just flowed over my object, but failed to wash it away. Hmmm. I flushed again. Same result. Maybe I should put the lid down... So I did and flushed again. Peek-a-boo. Still there. One more flush. Still present.

I'm starting to sweat. I've been in here a while now. Now, I could walk out and blame a smell on a previous visitor. But who would spend this much time in a lavatory with another person's poop? And it isn't as if I could just saunter anonymously back to my seat. Half the damn plane is outside the door waiting to come in. Someone starts jiggling the door. OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD! I'm starting to panic now. I'm either going to have to walk out and leave my poop on display for the rest of the passengers or... I'm going to have to stick my hand down there! I flush four more times.

I'm really starting to panic now. My hair is sticking to my face, my shirt is sticking to my back and I have a little sweat bead mustache. I put the lid down and sit on it. OK, get it together! How are you going to solve this problem? I take a deep breath (but not too deep) and look around the tiny room. While I'm thinking I flush a couple more times.

AHAH! I see the paper towel dispenser and have an idea. I take all the paper towels out and make a sort of paper-towel-mache stick by soaking them in water. This takes longer than you might think because of the paltry little stream you get from an airplane bathroom sink and the fact that if you aren't constantly pushing on the faucet handle, the stream stops. While I'm making my stick, I flush five more times.

Finally my stick is ready. As I flush, I hit the toilet bottom repeatedly with my handy new tool. Success after three flushes! Four more flushes and I've gotten rid of the paper towels too. I wash my hands again, and just as someone begins to jiggle the door again, I shoot back the lock and get the heck out of there. Now I'd like to tell you that I walked up the aisle with my head held high looking everyone defiantly in the eye. I didn't. I looked at the carpet and pushed my way back to my seat. As I pass my husband's seat (we had gotten on this flight at the last minute, and weren't able to get seats together), he looked at me with concern. Are you ok? I nodded. I have a story for you. But it will have to wait.

Hours later, in a pub in the loop in Chicago, I tell him the whole story. As I near the end of the story, I am touched by the look of intense relief on his face. This man really loves me. My embarrassment is his embarrassment. My pain is his pain. I say something sentimental (I've had a few drinks by now.) Actually, he says, I was sort of worried that you were going to tell me that you had it in your purse...