This took place a long, long time ago. I was about seven and I had a shit fit, at least that’s what my Dad, called it. A fucking bad day is what I called it.
I was a farm boy. I grew up working, that’s why my parents had me; to do shit. After marriage they waited seven years, till the chores piled up, before Ma popped me in the oven. There was a plan, believe me. I was no accident of passion; no awkward backseat hotshot. It wasn’t because my old man was too quick to pull out. I just wish I could use that same utilitarian excuse, I’m just a lightning bolt.
Anyway, it was hay season, late summer and hot. August soil thin as dirty flour stuck in every pore. The dry scratch of the dusty air was amplified by wheat chaf, it made you itch on the inside. There was no shade in sight. Though only in early elementary I had roll to play, I was driving. I would put our pick-up truck in first gear, pop the clutch and start idling down the field. The men would then walk beside, loading straw bales as we went. Bale after bale, hour after hour we worked. My dad and uncle throwing sixty pound bundles of dead grain up to my Grampa, in the bed of the vehicle, stacking the cubes; doing the working man’s version of Tetris.
YOU HAVE HEARD THE TERM – BUM FUCK
Well, we were somewhere past that. Literally, we were in the middle of nowhere; 25 miles from a town, six miles from the nearest random ranch house. We had exactly what we brought with us, nothing more; no cell phones, no 7-11 down the block, no AAA with a shiny blue and yellow tow truck to roll up and save the day. We were goddamn plainsman, the stuff Marlboro commercials are made of. In Webster’s under ‘rugged individualists’ you’d see a picture of my walrus looking Uncle Tim heaving a bale while my little, toe-head blonde self was peek-a-booing over the steering wheel. We are working men and at seven I was a valuable member of the team. Pretty big deal for a boy.
CLIMATE CHANGE OCCURS IN SECONDS
I didn’t start the day sick, but something happened. Suddenly, I had to poop. Not your standard civilian “gee, I think I need to go”, I had to shit! Right then, it was not an option, it was happening. Let me be clear, bodily functions out-of-doors is a non-issue for me but I was panicked and embarrassed, basically horrified. It wasn’t sanitation, it was pride. To be a boy included and needed by men, your own family is a badass feeling for a kid. The last thing I wanted to do was crap myself when hanging with the dudes.
I stopped the pickup, yelled for my dad. He ushered me to the front of the pickup, and scrambled for toilet paper, napkins, rags whatever….
I tore at my pants but there was no time, I tried to lean back but my diarrhea had charted a path with extreme velocity. Foul, acid gravy filled my undies and pants bundled around my ankles, soaked into my socks and shoes. It dripped down my skinny, pale legs like caustic egg yolk. It was a certifiable, unabashed fucking MESS!
There was no saving the cloths. Had they been weaved from the golden fleece, stitched with the hair of angels and buttoned with diamonds those pants would have been cast to wilds.
“Take’em off! You can wrap up in one of my flannel shirts,” said my truly sympathetic father. My uncle and my Grampa were keeping their respective distances at the back of the truck. I peeled off the shit covered garments, shoes, socks and all; everything but a ragged t-shirt. I was buck naked below the waist, narrow white ass and pinky dick in the wind. The toilet paper was sticking to my legs as the hot, wind dried the shit like yellow lava flow. I was tearful and shamed, stomach aching with a hot coal for a hole; I consider this a bit of a low point.
THEN THE HORSEFLIES ARRIVED
This was cow country, when fresh shit hits the wind armadas of insects take flight. Primarily this means large, ugly, wicked creatures called we called “horseflies”. They bite with malice leaving heavy welts that itch for days. They swarm to fresh poop intent to lay their demon eggs. Not only did I have feces splattered around me in the field dirt but it was still coating my naked legs.
Things went very wrong from here……… tragically, epically fucking wrong. The first few flies were hardly noticed, I was trying to collect myself, clean myself and roust the courage to wear my fathers flannel shirt like a kilt. I causally brushed away those early insect argonauts, but soon, one was four and then four was twelve. Exponentially they came. I started to slap and swat, they were landing all over my legs, flying between them, buzzing my groin.
By now I had forgotten all about cleaning myself, though I still had dirty ‘TP’ clenched in my hands like sticky, brass-knuckles. I was under goddamn attack. The hoard becoming a combatable symbol of all my anguish, fueled by frustration and embarrassment I actively was now trying to fight them.
Emotionally it made sense, defy and attack your foul antagonist, realistically not so much. Horseflies are not hive-minded, don’t attack with cohesive fury like bees. That doesn’t mean they aren’t aggressive and defensive, the more I smacked and clubbed at them the greater their tempest grew. Soon this was a fight to the death, to HELL we would clamber before I bowed to them. I was killing and being bitten with earnest. I had long abandoned the puffs of toilet paper, within minutes into this mêlée I was cycloning my own shit soaked tight-whitey’s like a naked ninja with soggy num-chucks. As I spun and slapped and twirled, angry flies bombarded me. It was like a battle scene from Star Wars but instead of X-Wings and cheesy pink and green laser gunplay it was arcs of splattering diarrhea and tears exploding against entomological battalions, fenders, face and windshield. It was war, it was raw and it was motherfucking ON!
SEPARATE WORLDS COLLIDE
The men had cracked open their coolers, trying to enjoy a respite while nobly offering me some privacy. As grown men, they had all been in a bad spot before and they were my family, they knew not to baby me. The most ardent way to help was to leave me the fuck alone. There was over a ton of straw and the eighteen feet of loaded truck between them and I. Innocent they were to the battle that raged mere yards from them. They were not at fault. They were in perfect order but eventually a parent senses the distress of his offspring.
“Hey, what the hell is taking so long? You ok up there?” yelled my father, Shasta soda in hand.
OK, this is blogging so rules of decent literature be damned. I’m freely disregarding tense, perspective, and narration…………god shines on the liberty of complimentary self publication. Love ya, but fuck off Mr. Pfister(my junior English teacher), proper grammar has no place in the modern vernacular. Anyway……so we all know that in front of the truck, Im locked in an onslaught against turd hungry, vampire bugs, Im naked, seriously pissed and falling further behind with each adrenaline drunk, home run swing I take versus a more nimble opponent.
Henceforth I want you to put yourself in the place of any of those fellas; my family of legit farmers, men with calluses and enough strength in their hands to choke a bear. You’ve just spent the morning huckin’ bales, sweating, panting and working heavy, then your trophy boy has explosive nausea. Out of normal human consideration you tend to you own. Then the tipping point reveals itself.
“Hey, what the hell is taking so long? You ok up there?”
“Flies!” I shriek! Hate, wrath and pain, shame and a champion’s will to fight like mercury on my voice.
It was only the length of a truck. The men dropped, boots to the dirt, each hearing the genuine distress in my voice. Had there been insurgent Vikings, axes would have been buried in brain and sinew, blood and men would have fallen!
Instead of conflict, when those men peeled around the corners of that old, gray Chevy, they were treated to a seriously frenzied child, flipping liquid shit like he was channeling Jackson Pollock.
At that point, my Uncle Tim who looked like a forty year old, sandy blonde version of Wilford Brimley took a poop slap to the moustache and cheek and went down; hysteric laughter rendering him utterly useless. Laughter morphing him into a perma-grin epileptic trapped in seizure. My Grampa Vic, homestead raised and quietly stoic, witness to many barnyard battles between frontier hog and chicken and child knew to pull up short but he cackled stupidly under is white, straw cowboy hat. I can honestly say that Ive never known, or even heard of my Grampa Vic losing control.
Im not talking about too many margaritas then leaving silly, tire tracks in the snow kind of lost control. He laughed spine deep, laughed harder and harder as he absorbed the tableau until he was swept away by the fits, saliva leaked from his mouth, tears rolling down his red face. It was one of those attacks of laughter that leaves your stomach muscles sore for days.
My Dad is my Dad, without hesitation he waded into the fray. He was trying with fervor to maintain control, to take official command of the situation but it was no use. His laughter came in snorts and coughs.
“Goddamn boy, stop swinging your shorts,” he pleaded ducking and juking forward like a boxer, trying in vain to dodge the hurricane of flying crud. He had to literally disarm me like a policeman, knocking the underwear out of my hand. Weaponless he scooped my up and hauled me out of the fire fight. Weakened by amusement it was more drag than carry. He deposited me on the tailgate.
Snapped free of my struggle, I basically wilted. I cried. Slowly the guys collected themselves and all pitched in to help. Grampa grabbed a semi-clean rag and his thermos, the luke-warm coffee worked great to clean my legs. Soon I was fully kilted in a work shirt and heading for home. Nothing like a crazed shit fit from your wheelman to end a work day.
Bouts of random chuckling spouted up from them all was we motored for home and the retelling to my astounded grandmother drew forth another round of full fledged tears. Being of the superior sex she didn’t think it was nearly as funny, she ushered me inside to shower and call my mom.
To this day the “SHIT FIT” is a family classic.
http://jlmatthew.wordpress.com/2009/11/08/jl-has-a-shit-fit/
http://jlmatthew.wordpress.com/2009/11/08/jl-has-a-shit-fit/