Flotsam & Jetsam

This is a story about a girl I dated in elementary school.  Maybe “dated” isn’t exactly the right word.  We “went out” with each other, which when you’re 13 in suburban Philadelphia in 1982 meant that you publicly professed your “like” for one another, got achingly jealous if you saw her talking to another boy, and it was certainly understood that you would rate each other a “10″ whenever a list of classmates got passed around for you to judge everyone’s appearances.  At least that’s what would have happened.  But she wasn’t in my class.  She was actually in the 6th grade. 

Now, I know what you’re thinking — Wow Soupy, 6th grade?  Thats awesome!  So what grade were you in?  5th?  4th?  3rd?  2nd?? 


I was in the 8th grade.  Her name was Chrissy and she was actually my second foray into the forbidden pond that was the 6th grade.  Both were cute, despite each being half of a Carpenter’s Dream.  I mean they were definitely flat as a board, although how easy they were to nail was anyone’s guess.

Anyway we broke up (she ended it) either a week or two months into our “relationship.”  Then I graduated, and moved on to high school.  And 7th grade girls.

I didn’t think of Chrissy again.

Then about six years later, I was bussing tables at the restaurant of my misspent young adulthood — the Blue Bell Inn, and I was scheduled to work banquets this particular afternoon.  We had three larger lunch parties scheduled, all high school graduations.  And that’s when I saw her last name in the reservation book.  It was definitely her; she had an odd last name, and the timing was right.  I have to admit, a high school graduate seemed a little old for me, but I was curious to see how she looked.

That’s about the time I heard a familiar gurgle emanating from my abdomen.  I should mention for my new readers that I have a nervous stomach.  Anyway, I locked myself in the single occupancy WC (water closet) (bathroom), adjacent to the larger banquet room, and proceeded with my business.

Ten minutes later.

Knock.  Knock.

“One minute,” I uttered as I stood, wiped, and flushed.  I zipped and buckled and opened the door and stood face to face with Chrissy.  She was all grown up and looked good, although she was still something of a Pirate’s Dream.  I rechecked my zipper, a nervous habit, and just stood there blocking the door, not really sure if the bathroom smelled or not.  “Hi,” I said.

She replied in kind, if not somewhat akwardly.  I attributed that to her having to go to the bathroom.

She then sort of moved more into the doorway as I was coming out, and we were facing each other sideways in the door.  I threw a last nervous glance back into the bathroom as she slipped past  me, and that’s when I saw it.  Them actually.  Two or three floaters; buoyant, brown little fuckers lounging on the toilet water’s surface.

Laughing at me.

But it was too late.  I was now clearly in the hallway, and she was clearly in the bathroom with the door halfway closed.  There was nothing left to do at that point than see her thirty to forty more times over the next two hours as I brought her rolls, and salad, and cleared her plate, and served her coffee and dessert, and just plain pretended that I hadn’t left her a few pieces of shit in the toilet.

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4 Responses to “Flotsam & Jetsam”

  1. Hmmm thanks for yet another nice and good post. Where do you find your inspiration for all this :| ? – Sportster exhaust

  2. My assistant once flooded the toilet at work and asked me to come and help her clean it up. There was poop on the floor. Um? No? Yes, yes, yes the answer was a for sure NO.

  3. landscaping Hockessin Reply 06. Mar, 2011 at 7:12 pm

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  4. The boy look so happy.