Buscatology

Bus Shit I slink down the aisle, whimpering dog, secretive, shit in my pants giving me away; smell follows, eyes follow, snickers follow. A turd drops out of my pant leg as I fumble down the steps, holding my ass, stubby little fingers unable to manage the load. A mother waiting to pick up her son looks at me questioning? I ignore her and think: “that fucking bus driver.” I was thirteen, I’d won a crest, the camp honor award, the highest honor. I was sitting in the bus waiting to go home, proud of myself, holding the crest up, admiring it, a trip of 30 miles. Someone had stolen my camping knife, One of the junior staff, “bastard thief.” As the bus pulled out, I felt a shit coming on. By the time we reached Brimfield center, (25 miles to go) I went up to the bus driver. “I hafta go.” “Whyn’t cha go before we leff?” He asked. Yes, he was right, it was a big bus. Yes, stopping would be trouble, besides, I could hold it. I went back to my seat. We reached Palmer (20 miles to go) I started having stomach pains, they got very bad. I went back up, holding my stomach. “I’m sorry,” I said, “But I hafta go REALLY BAD.” He said nothing, malice, silence… Then, with a roll of his eyes convincingly: “OK, wull stop at da nex gas station. Go on, sit back down, I’ll lettcha know When we get dere.” I returned to my seat through the stares and snickers. The pains went away. I felt better. I sat down, expecting soon the bus would pull into a gas station. It didn’t. We traveled a long stretch Of undeveloped road. All the while, Pains in my stomach came and went. I fought off each attack, relaxed and waited for the next one. I became frantic; Why isn’t he stopping? We’ve passed three gas stations; One even had a “clean restrooms” sign. We reached Wilbraham, (15 miles to go) I could stand the pain no longer. I squeezed my cheeks together and penguined up the aisle. He made excuses, “I din see no gas stations,” he lied, “Dere’s one up ahead, ‘wu’ll stop dere fer sure.” I knew now he wasn’t going to stop, he was indulging me. I was determined to hold it ‘til we reached the club. We entered Springfield. (10 miles to go) I tried to take my mind off the problem, I watched the landscape pass. There’s Nine Mile Pond. (9 miles to go) The bus stopped at the Parker Street light. “Shit,” I thought, “why can’t he let me off here. I’ll go behind a bush. I’ll go anywhere but Christ, I have to go!” There’s Five Mile Pond (5 miles to go) I can make it. The pains went away, now I had some new pressure. My colon cried out but I gave it no relief. I squeezed back With every muscle I had. “Are you all right?” the kid next to me asked; my eyes bulged, my fingers twisted, my body writhed. (1 mile to go) The bus started down Liberty Street. Hey! Liberty Street, I live on Liberty Street! “Go ask the bus driver if he can let me off at my house,” I squeaked to the kid next to me, Knowing if I spoke too loudly I’d explode. “No, do it yourself,” he replied. As the bus passed my house (300 feet to go) I felt my sphincter give up the battle. Through tear filled eyes, through embarrassment, through my house, through the bus, through my crest, through my asshole, just two short blocks from the club, the mother-load of shits charged out, (200 feet to go) filling my shorts with soft, warm relief. The kids around me scrambled forward. Not to get away from me, (100 feet to go) but because we’d reached the club. (0 feet to go) I asked someone to call my mother, “tell her I won a crest; have her bring me some clean pants.”I wrote this some time ago but thought, "Well there seems to be a trend lately here to publish "shitty" poetry... so here!" Written February 25th, 2002 © on Feb 25 2002 05:36 AM PST, same as above   0 • 14