Meanwhile, in Japan

Warning: I make a lot of poop jokes in this one.

It was a squatter. I was unaware that it would be a squatter. No one told me there were squatters in there. And now I’m riding the line between “pickle” and “situation.”

This whole debacle started around 7:00 A.M. When I wake up in the morning I have a protein shake, cereal, a glass of vegetable juice, and sometimes a sandwich. Yesterday’s Chinese wasn’t agreeing with me, but I thought little of it. Go on to work, I figured, and your system will be straightened out by lunch.

The schedule was changed, so I had classes during first period. “No problem, restroom,” I foolishly dismissed, “we’ll get together after this lesson.” Upon return to the staff room I was summoned by the English teacher with whom I had second period. She was sick and needed a last-minute activity. I quickly made copies, arriving to the room just after the bell rang. As I was running the kids through this chapter’s flashcards I was made startlingly aware of an international conflict between the United Breakfast Alliance and the People’s Republic of Why-Did-I-Eat-That.

Toilet. Now.

As I explained the activity and passed out worksheets my terror threat level went from “red” to “CANDY-FREAKING-APPLE-ABORT-ABORT.”

“I’ll be back in a minute.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Catabolism.”

We’re not generally supposed to use the kids’ restrooms, but I was willing to take lumps for this one. I’d never been in there before, and don’t intend to make a return trip. Luckily my mind was so preoccupied that I didn’t perceive the horrors present inside of a tile cube that is solely used and cleaned by eighth graders. I believe that I now qualify for a Combat Action Ribbon.

I swung open the stall door and knew that the worst of this wasn’t over when the presence of a Japanese-style squatter toilet registered in my mind. These things are tools of the Fallen One. They should not exist in a sane world.

For those of you who haven’t had the pleasure, allow me to describe this wonder of proud samurai engineering. Imagine a hole. Now put that hole in the ground. Suppose there’s a porcelain runway in front of said hole, seemingly designed for maximum spray-back. That’s what you have about a 30% chance of running into when you travel to the Land of the Rising Bum.

The method for using these things has always confounded me. One day, in an effort to keep my pants clean, I stopped by the book store to check out potty training manuals. Their methods failed to protect my clothes, so I turned to other foreigners. The best option thus far was described to me by an inebriated Canadian. “Take one pant leg off, then stick the yet-bepantsed leg out to the side.”

I want to make it abundantly clear that I did reach the designated defecation area in time. This is important because, in my haste to make waste, my pants fell into a puddle the contents of which I’d prefer not to ponder. Thanks, kids. Unfortunately, the area of my pants that had just been soiled was decidedly crotchial in nature. As far as anyone would be able to tell the American guy had just lost control of his bodily functions.

In a normal office environment this would be something about which we could all share a laugh, then I would go home and get some fresh pants. This, however, was a middle school and I still had two classes left that morning including the one to which I needed to return in a decidedly ricky-tick manner. Macguyver time. I looked at what was available: cheap toilet paper, a sink, mirrors, an open window, and pens of varying colors. I put together three possible solutions: combine the toilet paper, open window, and my lungs to dry the area (takes time); break open the pens and mix them with water until a dye of suitable color can be produced, dye the pants and go back to class (pants still wet); make a break for my apartment by climbing down from the third story window, steal a kid’s bike, and try to return before the bell rings (I’d have to climb past several classrooms).

I did my best to dry out the affected portions and then spent the next hour walking around like a penguin, knees pinned together and pants sort of tucked in a bundle so that the moist part couldn’t be seen. As luck would have it, no one questions when I do strange things anymore. The staff and students alike simply accepted that I was preparing to try out for Happy Feet 2: Electric Boogaloo.