Mathematics on Dating

My math teacher is crazy. She loves saying she’s crazy, is prone to ending every personal anecdote with “haha” and, anytime she can work the word “lover” into her lecture, she’ll gladly insert it. Because she’s so unique, I spend as much time writing down her quotes as I do working math problems. It’s worth it, though.

Here are a few treats from the first day of class:

“If you’re gonna miss class - let’s say your kid is sick or your daughter is dating someone and you have to be home…Ha-ha!” (On reasons why you might miss class)

“When we first started dating, we treated each other like Kings and Queens. When we got married, we’d wake up in the morning and go UGHHH!” (On her husband)

Jesus Christ, Lips Shit His Pants

Lips Foal arrived in front my high school in a freshly painted orange Ford Pinto with mag wheels. There was no irony in this vehicle. It was 1980 and the Pinto was somewhat of a popular car. Lips was a friend of my sister and we played on the Varsity Tennis Team together. I got in the car and we drove to practice, a mile away in a local park.

Lips was very flamboyant and would yell “Bad Boy” and “Silly Billy,” referring to himself, when he missed a crosscourt forehand or an easy volley at net. One time when we were playing a match, he missed an easy drop shot. He looked to the sky, threw his arms in the air and yelled, “Teacher, leave us kids alone.” We were indoors, so his words resonated throughout the cavernous sports club we called Tennis Town. Players on opposing courts stopped and looked our way. I was 14, a freshman in High School and I remember thinking it was the oddest response to anger. I preferred ‘Fuck” and “Fuckin’ Shit” when I missed a shot. But Lips was different.

Lips turned and walked back to the baseline to serve. He was heavy-set, hairy and sweated a lot. I watched him as he walked: his shirt stuck to his back, forming a trail of sweat down his spine. The same sweat pattern mirrored the back of his shorts, but it was darker and appeared to get even darker as it neared his anus, forming a bull’s eye of sorts. I thought to myself, “Jesus Christ, Lips shit his pants.”

He served and we continued playing like nothing happened. As the match continued, the shit stripe became a little more pronounced and the bull’s eye darker. I came to realize that he didn’t poop his pants, but something was definitely leaking. Since he was a sweaty guy, he was probably used to this feeling.

The next day at practice, I told everybody that Lips shit his pants. I was 14 and this news was too big to keep.

Many years later, when I was cab driver, I picked up Lips and a friend on Market Street in San Francisco, going to the End-Up Club on 6th. I recognized him right away but didn’t acknowledge it. Halfway through the fare, Lips must’ve looked at my medallion displayed on the dash.

“Greg Kim? The Greg Kim from Pleasanton?

I hated picking up fares that I knew, especially ones that I hadn’t seen since high school. Driving a cab is a sure sign that you’re not doing well, at least if you’re from Pleasanton.

I responded in a monotone cabbie voice, “Lips Foal, right? How are ya?” I was a Brooklyn accent short of saying, “Fuckin’ Lips Foal. How the fuck are you?”

Lips proceeded to tell his friend about how we used to play tennis and that he was friends with my sister in high school. Lips was "queenier" now and definitely out. By the looks of him, he appeared to be successful and doing well.

He handed me $20 dollars for an $8 dollar fare and said to keep the change. It was awkward. I drove away thinking about the time he shit his pants and he was probably thinking about the time I told the whole tennis team that he shit his pants.

Frosty Freeze

Behind the bathrooms a 40 foot rock wall led up to the highway. It formed an amphitheatre of sorts, which caught a cacophony of sounds cascading from the campsite. I could clearly hear the Christians singing songs and the low hum of campers moving about.

From across the campground, a lone voice yelled, “Shut the Fuck Up.” It was obvious that the Christians were making the most noise and the comment was directed at them. The campground was silent. Without missing a beat, the youth minister yelled back, “It’s not 10 PM.” As campers know, it’s hush-hush after 10 PM. Before that, it’s fair game. The Christians knew their camping rules. They went back to singing and the campsite grumbled with noises. The lone voice of dissent was never heard from again.

I walked into the bathroom and all the stalls were occupied. Taking a cursory look under the doors, I deduced the people in the stalls were in there for the long haul. I have no idea how I came up with that theory - maybe they were reading newspapers or all their shit was laying on the ground in front of them. Either way, I made the ill-advised decision to crap in the shower stall and push it down the center drain with my feet.

This decision came from knowing my bowel movements. I’m not of those people that don’t go to the bathroom at work, waiting until they get home to explode. No. I can pretty much go anywhere. The one problem is that once the telephone call comes down from the bowels saying it’s time to go, and the time limit is given, there’s no stopping the impending movement. It’s like a 10 minutes stop watch: if I don’t find a bathroom in 10 minutes, I’m going in my pants or on the side of the road, or in a box in a back of a van. This knowledge helped me make this decision. I’ve crapped in the showers many times, almost always at home, so this was no big deal; however, the call came and I needed to go.

It was a pay shower, so I came prepared with 4 quarters. By this time the stopwatch was down to 30 seconds. My knees were touching and I moved in an accelerated motion. I put quarters in the receptacle, turned the handle and nothing. Nothing. I panicked. It was broken I was about to crap on the floor of the showers. I knew that no amount foot stomping would get a turd successfully down the drain without the constant flow of water from a shower. I was fucked.

I was camping with my girlfriend’s family, who were not necessarily fond of me. They had a reason not to be: I didn’t have a job, preferring the income of General Assistance; I had a drinking problem that would get worse and I was prone to verbal bursts of low self-esteem masked as self-deprecation. I was in a band, though, that I tirelessly worked to implode anytime we played. I was a catch.

I somehow knew that shitting on the floor of the campground showers and leaving it for the next campers would somehow get back to me. I envisioned forcibly being removed from the campground in front of my girlfriend’s parents:

Park Ranger: “Are you the guy that shit in the showers?”

Even if I denied it to the end, everybody in our campsite knew I was capable of such an egregious act, except for her parents. It was all too much to bear.

Standing naked in the stall, butt clenched, I came up with a plan. Pulling my Chicago Bulls baseball cap from my head, which I found on the side of the freeway, literally pulling over and running to back on the shoulder to get it, I squatted and placed the baseball hat in my right hand - upside down – under my ass to catch the falling poop; my left hand was used to pull my left ass cheek as far away from the anus as possible. This would allow a clean fall into the cap.

Since I had to go real bad, building up to the final countdown, it came out like a frosty freeze ice cream. A day of drinking, eating chips and shitty foods contributed to the unfortunate texture. I breathed a sigh of relief, carefully putting my clothes back on, taking extra special care with my shorts. I opened the shower stall door and all the bathrooms were still taken, so I decided to wade into the lake and clean off.

It was a beautiful night and besides the troubles I just had, i was happy to be somewhere that was different than San Francisco, where my life was cold, foggy and depressing. My troubles were at least suspended for a weekend in the waters of a warm lake. I was happy.

Wading into the lake, I held the ball cap full of poop by the head area, not the brim. When the water flooded over my privates, I gently turned the cap over. The crap reluctantly fell into the water. I immediately started pushing water toward it, while moving backward. Once I was far enough away, I plunged the baseball cap into the water and vigorously scrubbed the areas that were soiled. I did the same with my shorts.

Before going back to camp, I dunked my head under water, to appear that I took a shower.

I wore the cap for the rest of the weekend.

Pee Stream Shadow

There was a sign on the entrance to the 1st floor bathroom of the main Library that said, “Do not shower in the sink.” I was a bit befuddled. I thought this was common knowledge or, more like it, not possible. They were shallow sinks so you couldn’t even stick your head underneath the faucet. However, because they felt the need to post a sign stating such, you would have to believe that people were getting naked and getting wet in the sink

Upon seeing this sign, most normal would look elsewhere or just hold it. I, on the other hand, wanted to see what was going on in there. Public bathrooms are a wonderful source of material.

The door had long been taken off, for security reasons. A long hallway, wide enough for 2 people with large backpacks, opened up into a large bathroom. An island of sinks divided the room; the urinals and stalls were plastered to 3 walls.

I looked around and was disappointed. It was your typical Greyhound/Trans Bay Terminal bathroom: guys washing their faces and under arms, crazy people taking pisses on the floor, the homeless guy passed out in the stall with the door open and the floor drowning in a quarter inch of water (I hope). I had seen it before and wasn’t in the mood for it.

Being a library vet, I took the elevator to the 3rd floor to a little known, small bathroom that exists to the east of the elevators. I walked in and was delighted by what I saw.

At the only urinal was a crazy man, with his pants down to his ankles, taking a piss. Typical crazy guy fare, yes, but he was a good 5 feet from the urinal, his clear urine forming a long bridge from his penis to the bottom urinal.

Without giving it much thought, I lined up a little to the right of him, to get a good view of the urine bridge. I must’ve got him early because he had a good, strong stream going. It looked like it would last forever, but I knew that wasn’t the case. About 15 seconds in, the urine bridge began to fall. This was what I was waiting for. Like a fuse to a bomb, it made its way down the urinal, onto the back wall and on the floor, stopping between his feet. It was a first for me.

He pulled up his pants and left. I widen my stance and went to the bathroom.

Lying My Ass Off

I was in the bathroom at a burrito place on Mission at 23rd. I was pissing in the urinal when a phone rang. The sound appeared to be coming from the adjacent stall. The guy in the stall answered the phone and said, "Honey, I told you not to call me at work...I'm working!" He came out, smiled and said, "I'm lying my ass off."

59 Pancakes

Sometimes I like to go to 2nd or 3rd floor to go to the bathroom. I work on the 1st floor and the bathroom can get a little crowded. So, if upstairs doing something work related and I get a small inkling from my bowels or bladder, I’ll detour and go to the bathroom.

Last week I was in the second floor bathroom. While I pee’d, strange sounds were coming from the stall, but this was not unusual. Most guys (I can only speak for my gender) are used to various grunt and groans emitting from bathroom stalls when somebody is taking a crap. It’s not pleasant, but it common. When grunts are mixed with pleading (“Come on, man Come on.”), I finish my business and get out of there. Gross.

These sounds were not normal. A mixture of mumbling, squeaking and wild laughing, I figured it was a challenged individual in the stall, as we utilize challenged groups at work. I had heard these sounds before.

The squeaking was abruptly interrupted with a yell: “59 pancakes!” It was brilliant and startling. I could only assume the individual had a hell of a breakfast and was now paying the price.

A co-worker walked in and pushed open the door to the adjacent stall, not knowing what had just happened. A few seconds later, the familiar sound of flatulence escaped under the door of his stall. Immediately, a cry of laughter came from the next stall. 59 pancakes thought this was funny. As I left, my poor co-worker did his best to hold it in.

Wolfie's 5th

My little boy turned 5 yesterday. It was a beautiful day, in the mid 70s and not a cloud in the sky. We celebrated with our friends, a bouncy house, a popcorn machine, bubbles flying in the front and balloons swaying in the back. It was as perfect gets.

Prepping for the party was another story. There were cupcakes to make, ice to get, beverages to be bought and pizzas that needed to picked up. Our morning started at 8 am with the doorbell ringing.

I jumped out of bed, knowing exactly who was at the door, but not was what time it was. Our alarm clock suffered a severe injury to its face plate a while back, due to an errant paw from our cat Tuxie. Actually, it was a calculated blow. The cat wanted food, we were asleep and he felt we weren’t moving fast enough. Knocking the clock radio to the ground was the answer.

I put on my pants, found my slippers and shuffled to the door, half asleep. Forgetting to turn off the alarm, I opened the door and the alarm went off. The bouncy house guy laughed at me, it was 8 am. They were an hour early, which was a good thing.

While they set up the bouncy house, Wolfie and I went to get bagels, coffee and money. It was gonna be a long day and we’d need all three to survive. On the way back, I paused to think about the upcoming day and the struggles it would present: the mixing of school parents and our friends, ill-behaved kids fucking up Wolfie’s toys and our house, and trying to remember everybody’s name. All things that made me anxious

I looked in the back seat and Wolfie was high on anticipation. I made a vow to handle all situations and enjoy my son’s 5th birthday. I thought about when he was born and how the past 5 years have been the best of my life. It was a cliché, yes, but the little guy in the back changed my life forever and filled me with love, joy and fear, which wasn’t necessarily bad.

It was a great, great day.