“Oh shit.”
“What?” I asked.
“It’s really good.”
“Fuck.”
I took a bite of mine, and realized she was right. It was delicious. How the hell could we be so close to water and find such a good meal? I ate about half of the food on my plate and finally gave up. There was simply no more room in my stomach. One more bite, even wafer thin, would cause a catastrophic gastrointestinal explosion. Lux looked equally full as she groaned and leaned back in her chair. Verena came by the table to see how we were doing and could tell from our expressions that we were done.
“It was good, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“Unfortunately, you’ll see why when you get the check.”
Verena disappeared to the cash register and returned a minute later, looking a little nervous as she passed me the bill.
“That bad?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said, a little sheepishly.
I looked down at the bill and saw that it was one hundred and twenty eight francs. Not too bad—for the Agency.
“Oh, it’s less than I thought it would be,” I said, as I handed over the Agency credit card to Verena.
She returned a short time later, and I added a thirty franc cash tip, which was nearly six times the usual amount of Switzerland’s five percent, but I figured a young art or literature major needed all the money she could get.
“Thank you, Mr. Finn. I hope you two come again.”
We got up and headed for the door, and I noticed our fellow tourists were putting a lot of effort into looking as though they were not looking at us. Rookies. We continued on to the car, and the walk back felt longer than the walk in—mainly because I had a belly full of cheese, bread, and pork. I was pretty sure the next morning would yield a mighty bowl of fecal fondue, but it would make for a hell of a good dump. I got into the car, started the engine, and watched the front door.
“What are you waiting for?” Lux asked.
“Keep an eye on the front door, and you’ll see.”
A second later, the fucking Fuchs exited the restaurant, and I could see the woman’s shirt was still wet and mostly see-through beneath her unzipped micro puff jacket. Her companion hazarded a brief glance at her goodies before turning his gaze to us. I waved, put the car in gear, and headed for the highway, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror. It would take a while for them to deal with the tire and, by then, we’d be long gone.
“Did you do something to their car?”
“I let the air out of their back tire.”
“Nice.”
“Any thoughts yet on why Americans would be following Americans?”
“Not any good ones, unfortunately.”
Lux looked ahead at the view only diverting her gaze once to check the rearview mirror. She was concerned, but I took that as a good omen, because it meant that it was unlikely that she was holding back any important information. I stomped on the gas pedal and heard the Audi’s V10 engine roaring to life as I shifted into top gear and moved into the fast lane. Next stop, Davos.
CHAPTER NINE
The Shit Stop
UNFORTUNATELY, DAVOS WAS not our next stop, and the actual next stop was, in fact, a gas station, and we were there for two reasons. The first was gas while the second was also gas—although not the kind that comes from a pump, but rather the kind that comes from within the human body. Neither Lux nor I were lactose intolerant, but, somehow, eating a half-gallon of molten cheese had done the trick, and it was time for a necessary bathroom stop, as the gas was rapidly turning into solid or more likely, liquid. We got out of the car, and I started to pace back and forth while I nervously pondered my deep seated fear and loathing of public restrooms. Needless to say, the movement was doing nothing to ease the excessive pressure in my abdomen and actually seemed to be hastening the need for its release.
“You seem tense,” Lux said.
“That’s because I am tense.”
“Oh, yeah—your whole bathroom privacy neurosis.”
“Yeah, and I’m serious when I say I can count on one hand how many times I’ve actually taken a dump in a public toilet.”
“How the hell did you ever make it in special operations?”
“By holding it for an especially long time. Plus, we rarely dined on fucking fondue and pork ribs before an op.”
“Well, we’re here to take a quick dump and get back on the road, so you’re going to have to just go in and get it over with. Trust me, it won’t be that bad.”
“Well, maybe if I were using the Womens restroom. I’m not exaggerating when I say that the Mens is almost always a disaster zone. Guys are pigs and think of the entire stall as a potential target. Everything, including the seat, floor, and walls are fair game and might be coated with pee, poo, and even the occasional booger.”
“Don’t touch anything and use one of those seat covers.”
“The middle part always falls into the bowl, and then the capillary effect slowly draws the toilet water up the paper to the seat. If you don’t get your ass off fast enough, you might as well be sitting in the toilet.”
“Jesus, you have a real issue with this, don’t you?”
“You have no idea.”
“Well, you’re just going to have to man up and take a shit.”
“Fine. I’ll see you on the other side,” I said.
Lux smiled.
“Good, now go get this done with the same gusto you had the last time you said those words to me.”
It took a second to remember that I had uttered the very same thing just before Lux and I climaxed at the conclusion of our lustful little beach entanglement on Soft Taco Island.
“Well—I’ll try, though this situation, unlike the other, is literally going to be the shits.”
The pressure was becoming too much to bear, and it was down to filling a toilet or my pants. We walked inside and parted ways with Lux going to the Ladies room and me heading in to the Mens. I was relieved to find it was free of other motorists, as I hated doing dumps with strangers and often got the giggles if they farted. I checked each of the three stalls then decided on the one against the far wall, because it seemed to afford the most privacy. Surprisingly, it didn’t look too bad, and I slid out a sanitary cover, tore out the middle, and placed it over the seat before turning around and dropping onto the waxy paper. At least it gave me a measure of warmth from the cold seat, but it ripped a little when I moved around to get comfortable. No time to worry about that now. I just needed to get the dump done and get back on the road.
I took a breath, relaxed, and felt as though I might just survive this experience—that is, until I heard the bathroom door open. Shit—I had a visitor, though if I were lucky, he’d just pee quickly and leave me in peace. I therefore listened intently to the stranger’s footsteps and unfortunately heard him make his way past the urinals and over to the stalls. Oh shit, he was a dumper, and now I was trying to gauge his size, hoping to high heaven that he wasn’t a big motherfucker about to blow out the remnants of a three hour binge at an all you can eat smorgasbord. Thankfully, the intruder sounded light on his feet, but, annoyingly, he took the open stall to my left. Shit. Who would do that? It was like taking the seat next to someone in an otherwise empty movie theatre. It was creepy and infringed unnecessarily upon the unspoken boundaries of personal space.
I continued to listen as the guy went through all the steps I had just completed—the sound of crinkling paper meaning he had, at last, taken a seat on the toilet. I leaned down and looked under the divider and saw two small feet in sneakers hanging just above the floor. Well, hold me closer tiny dumper! It was a child! How bad could it be? Children were smaller, so it stood to reason that their shits would be smaller as well and hopefully not as foul smelling as a full sized adult.
Or, so I thought. That theory was put to rest about two and a half seconds later when the first explosion rocked the bowl. Sweet farting Jesus—the kid must have eaten his wei
ght in fondue for that kind of concussive force. It sounded more as if someone had thrown a hand grenade into the toilet, and, if there were any more like that, it would be a miracle if he didn’t go airborne. He let loose another round, and I was surprised at his other worldly composure in the face of such a brutal expunging of his bowels. Any person, be it a child or adult, would surely be in tears at this point, but, somehow, he had the will and fortitude of a demigod. Strangely, in that moment of fecal reflection, I felt as though I might be on the verge of a great epiphany. I had always been terrified of public restrooms and avoided them at all costs, but, now, listening to the unabashed gastric violence of the kid, I found the experience oddly comforting and, at some level—inspiring. If a child could do it, then why not me? I was an adult for fuck’s sake and had survived armed conflicts, physical confrontations, and even high school. I, therefore, gathered my courage, visualized the calm water below, and let loose a great tide of waste—the percussive volume far louder and more powerful than I ever could have imagined. The kid laughed, and, at first, I was embarrassed, but, after a moment passed, I too laughed. Pretty soon we were both laughing together, and that was constricting our stomach muscles and creating a surprising amount of additional force, which, in turn, greatly increased both the volume and explosive power of our respective dumps. Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture started playing in my head, and flatulence and bold laughter filled the air as fecal projectiles fired off like shells from a great battleship—my tiny dumper and I unlikely allies in a war waged on porcelain.
At long last, silence descended upon the field of battle, and smoke rose from the burning hulks that once plied my intestinal divide. I was feeling physically empty though emotionally full, and ever thankful for the courage I had gained from my little wingman. Still, I could only imagine the wreckage that lay below—but it was not the time to lament loss, but rather to celebrate victory. I had faced my lifetime foe on even ground, gone toe to toe on a cold tiled battlefield, and emerged triumphant. Now, hearing the Pomp and Circumstance graduation March playing in my head, I reached for the toilet paper, and found, to my horror, that it was empty. The music was rudely interrupted by the sound of a needle dragging across a record followed by utter silence. Sweet victory be damned! You expected that kind of poor bathroom management in the States but not in a semi-Germanic country, where order was the rule rather than the exception. Perhaps, I could pull a MacGyver and make use of a waxy toilet seat cover, or tear my shirt into convenient little rectangles, but, alas, the path of least resistance signified I was going to have to reach out to my tiny dumper.
“Sprechen du Englisch?” I asked.
“Ja,” came a little voice from the other stall.
“Um—do you have any extra toilet paper?” I asked the kid.
“Oh—ja ja. Just a minute,” he said.
I could hear him shuffling around the metal dispenser, then, at last, his little hand appeared under the divider wall holding a roll of toilet paper.
“Danke.”
“Bitte.”
I wiped, flushed, and then made my way out to the sink to wash my hands. My little dump buddy was already there, and he smiled as I joined him.
“Good dumping,” he said.
“Ja. I thought I was going to blow my toilet apart.”
“I did too,” he said, before bursting into laughter.
We dried our hands and exited the bathroom, and my little dump buddy walked over and joined his parents by the register, where he was probably telling them about the American with explosive diarrhea who almost blew apart a toilet bowl.
“See, that wasn’t so bad now, was it?” Lux asked.
“I survived—but I won’t be making it a habit.”
Just then a group of women came bustling out of the women’s room. They were laughing, talking, and acting as though they had just left a party.
“Fucking women. It’s not fair. A bathroom stop has no consequences, because it always takes you the same amount of time whether it’s a one or a two,” I said.
“And what’s the big deal with that?”
“The big deal is that if a woman is out on a date and she goes to the bathroom, she could do whatever the hell she needs to do, and we men will never be the wiser. If we go to pee, we’ll be back in two minutes. If we take a shit, it’ll be a half an hour, and our date will know exactly what we’ve done.”
“So?”
“So, you can’t take a dump while you’re out on a date.”
“Why?”
“Because it will ruin it.”
“Bullshit. I’ve dumped on a lot of dates.”
“Are we talking actually on them—because the thought of you dropping a load on Corn is oddly satisfying.”
Lux stared at me, looking particularly unamused by my last statement before she finally answered.
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I do, but my point is that women have an unfair advantage, especially in the precious early stages of a relationship. If I had to shit while out on a date, I would hold it all night and well into the next day until I was completely alone. I wouldn’t care if it grew to the size of a football and I needed an epidural, episiotomy, and a midwife to birth that fucker.”
“You know you sound crazy, right?”
“Hardly, and you know what I’m saying is basically true.”
“It’s not.”
“It is, and do you know the reason for this great inequity?”
“No, but I’m sure that you’re going to tell me.”
“The reason behind your extraordinary bathroom timing is all about balancing out the sexes. We can pee anywhere, anytime, without squatting and pulling down our pants. So, to even that out—women have developed the ability to poo or pee in the exact same amount of time.”
“It’s sad that you’ve spent so much time thinking about this, when you could have been using that brain of yours for something useful or good.”
“Damn you, woman! I am pondering the great hidden truths of the universe.”
“Seriously? By analyzing the differences in how long it takes guys and girls to go to the bathroom?”
“Yep, the lavatory is my laboratory, and I call my body of work the Dump-Time Continuum.”
“I imagine there aren’t many men who would take on such an unusual task.”
“I’m not most men.”
“Clearly, and that wasn’t intended as a compliment.”
The family finished at the counter and were walking past us on their way back out to their car when the boy stopped and smiled up at me.
“Auf Wiedersehen, super dumper!” he said, holding up his hand for a high five.
“Auf Wiedersehen, tiny dumper,” I responded, as I completed the gesture.
That was my third high five since leaving the Caribbean, so, regardless of what happened on this job, I was, at least, winning hearts and minds. My tiny dumper and his family continued on, and I noticed his mom trying her best not to laugh, which proved the point of my earlier discussion with Lux.
“See? She’s already judging me,” I said.
We walked back to the car, and I slid the agency card into the slot on the pump, and hit the premium button. Thank God I wasn’t paying for gas as the ten-cylinder engine certainly was thirsty. Ninety francs later the tank was full, and I closed the cap and took a seat in the car. The sun was low in the sky and would soon dip behind the mountains, which meant it would be dark by the time we reached Davos. I pulled out onto Route 28 and hit the accelerator, relieved to have expunged my body of any and all cheese products, but also particularly excited to know I was that much closer to freshening up in a proper private bathroom. We reached the speed limit in a matter of seconds and were soon overtaking a family in a Volvo. It turned out to be the vehicle of my little wingman, and he looked over at me through the back window, and the two of us exchanged a final wave as I shifted into top gear and sped off into the mountains and looming darkness of the Swiss night.
A little less than twenty minutes later, we saw the sign for Davos, and entered the picturesque alpine hamlet. We’d be staying at the Schtenberger, an upscale hotel near the center of town, but, by the looks of things, I doubted they had anything but upscale hotels. I guess skiing in Switzerland was not for the poor, but then it wasn’t much different in the States, where the money for a weekend on the slopes for a family of four could require a second mortgage. We pulled in, and, as I was about to bypass the complimentary valet, Lux smacked me on the arm.
“Use the valet, jackass. You’re a millionaire now.”
“Whatever, trust-funder.”
We stopped, and the valet opened the door for Lux while I jumped out before he could reach my door. Some things a man should do for himself. We grabbed our luggage and hurried out of the cold and into the warmth of the hotel. Sweet Swiss vacation destinations! If the lobby was any indication of the rest of the place, then we were in for a very pleasant stay. It was modern and rustic all at the same time—the exposed wooden beams of the ceiling residing over an interior that was a combination of fine stonework and large expanses of white painted walls. The furniture was leather and blocky, but it was nestled beside a homey looking fireplace and floor to ceiling windows that looked out over the entire city. We were definitely not in Kansas anymore.
I walked up to the granite topped front desk and was greeted by one of the most welcoming smiles I’d seen in quite some time. The woman was already beautiful with her wavy brown hair, blue eyes, and kissably plump lips, but, when she smiled, she had the power to light up the room. I’m not sure if it was the sheer width of her mouth or the accompanying twinkle in her eyes, but it made me feel pretty damn welcome. It was, in fact, the kind of smile a woman gave you after you slid a fourteen karat diamond ring on her finger, and it, therefore, made sense that she was at the front desk. Any travel-weary guest would instantly forget the world beyond the doors and graciously accept a room and stay for the night—if not a lifetime.
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