You Had to Be There; Or Maybe Not

I'll let you in on a little secret: some of the stuff that struck me funny as a little boy still strikes me just as gut-busting, doubled-over-with-laughter funny now. Oh, I like to fool myself (or others) into believing I'm, at last, the mature, thoughtful adult my Mother always hoped I'd be- rational, intelligent, well balanced and grounded in common sense and proper decorum. And maybe some of that's actually true. But I have to tell ya, get me on the right topic and, well, sometimes I guess I've yet to evolve past the 4th grade. Case in point, the following.

I've often regaled this blog with tales of my time at KGA, the big radio station in Spokane where I felt I came of age as a broadcaster. (see "A KGA Essay"; blogpost 2.11.11) And about some of the stuff that went on between songs there, and at other radio stations. (see "Behind The Scenes"; blogpost 4.19.11).  But in keeping with that theme, and as a public service for the Dietary Fiber Industry, I present the story of one man's amazing digestive regularity.

(Disclaimer: Those with delicate sensitivities or small senses of humor are excused to move on to something else now).

KGA's 11 p.m. to 5 a.m. graveyard shift was named, promoted and sold as, the Tabasco Overnight Truck and Road Show. The Tabasco Company even provided little mini 6-packs of the stuff to give away each night. And during the time I did the show, the station changed morning show hosts three times. So I had to get used to and learn the routines of three different hard-working people whose work days began at the unglamorous time of 4:30 each morning. And I swear if there was such a thing, there'd be a page dedicated to one of those three gentlemen in the Guinness Book of Amazing Facts in its Well-tuned Human Intestinal Tract sub-section. 

 

Frankly, this particular morning guy- and to protect the innocent will be known only as Mr. X- wasn't much of a morning guy at all. Not in the classic sense anyway. Mr. X wasn't very funny and came with almost no pizazz. He had ability and knew his way around a microphone, but he had all the on-air vitality of an undertaker. All he really brought to the table was a rich, deep voice for radio. But he had other talents, too, and one the world never know: the guy was dead on-regular. Seriously regular. So regular, Greenwich Mean Time probably took its cues from him. So regular, Swiss watch makers could set every time piece by the man's morning trip to the toidy because Mr. X, took a dump each morning at precisely 4:40 Pacific Time. Not 4:35. Not a quarter to 5. Not even, by random chance, 4:42 or 3. Nope, it was always 4:40. On the dot.

Come half past four each morning I’d see Mr. X make his first appearance, walking pass the studio window with newspaper firmly tucked under an arm. He never waved or said "Hi", but words weren't necessary; I knew where he was going and what was about to happen. And right on time, ten minutes later, like Mussolini's trains, he'd enter the studio with a relieved look of satisfaction and “feelin’ fine” plastered to his face. The he’d exchange brief pleasantries and begin quietly pulling carts for his show. Like nothing had happened. But everyone within a hundred yards knew what just happened. And one day, because I found this metabolic ritual so incredibly amusing, I called him on it: “Hey, how do you do that? Ya know, take a crap each day at the same time?”

 

Kind of a weird looking dude in general, Mr. X was even scarier first thing in the morning. He had a thick, unruly beard, which wasn't nearly as un-managed as the dark hair on top of his head. An hour out of bed, it continued to sprout wildly in several directions as though the man was still in the middle of a bad dream. I’d heard him say he didn't comb it till getting off the air, because the damn headphones keep messing it up. Whatever. But had it been Halloween he'd been a great werewolf…. except he looked that way every day.   However, apparently taking my question seriously Mr. X stroked his beard thoughtfully and took on an almost professorial countenance.as he formulated a response.

 

 “Rocket, my man, it’s like this. Once 5:00 arrives, it gets real busy in here and I don't have time to take care of any personal business, ah ... comfortably. You see, for me, a healthy bathroom break takes about ten minutes. And I ask you: who’s got time for that during a crowded morning show? Surely you can see the dilemma. If I don’t unload by 5, I’m gonna explode. And long before 10 a.m. right? So I’ve had to train my body, train my colon, if you will, to void on a schedule"  The conversation was growing dumber by the moment, but I kept choking back laughs while Mr. X just went on as if testifying under oath. 

 

"I go to bed right at 9, but not before a bowl of All-Bran Cereal and a glass of prune juice. The prune juice is the key, though”, he emphasized, like I was taking notes. “It gets down there and kind of greases the skids, ya know?” Not really, but I’d take his word for it. “Seven hours later, the alarm goes off at 4:00, I get up, shower, dress and leave. But I know something’s percolating down there”, he continued, pointing to his mid-section, “and during 15 minute drive over here, that’s when I start to feel the rumblings, ya know?” This time I laughed out loud, but Mr. X didn't even crack a smile. He was trying not to anyway.

“Then once I’m here and in the building I head for the coffee machine. And it’s that first cup of coffee that finally releases the hounds, loosens everything up, so to speak. By then I know all systems are ‘go’, so I grab the paper and head to the men’s room where, just like Old Faithful, at twenty minutes to five my bowels obediently evacuate. Ten minutes after that, I’m ready to face the world again. Of course it doesn’t take ten minutes to do the job. But I kinda like to sit there, relax, and do some mental show prep."

Doing show prep on the toilet. I believed it, too. I’d heard his show. It was crap.

But by then I just about died falling off the console stool. I was laughing so hard tears were streaming down my eyes and I was gagging for air. Fortunately by the time Mr. X’s curious, though comical, colonic commentary reached its pinnacle, I didn't have to talk anymore. Just like clockwork, the last song of the hours stretched exactly into the 10 second ID jingle, and then right into the 5 a.m. ABC network newsbreak. My backtiming had been impeccable, right on time. Kind of like Mr. X’s automatic pilot, gastro-intestinal predictability.

Still laughing as the ABC anchor began his spiel, I relinquished the controls and signed off the program log. However I couldn’t believe I’d just been privy to this silliest of conversations; and even more surprised I’d had it with Mr. X. Of everyone on staff, if you’d taken a poll, he would’ve been voted Most Uninteresting. Or Least Likely to Have a Sense of Humor. Never “one of the guys” and seemingly one of the farthest removed, on this day he had no problem letting his funny looking hair down, being real and being the butt of the joke. But from that day on   Mr. X had my deepest respect; of course I was 26 going on 16 and bathroom humor was still quite high on the list of things I greatly appreciated. So he hadn’t had to work too hard to earn it.

As Mr. X settled in to work, I gathered up my stuff and prepared to go home. But it’d already been a good morning. Side-splitting hilarity was a great way to start the day. However, as I drove away from the station, it occurred to me I hadn’t gotten the whole poop just yet. My very regular new friend still hadn’t explained why he left the bathroom door open after doing his business. Mr. X’s malodorous daily trip to the radio station toilet produced an unseen toxic fog that seemed to take its own unpleasant time clearing. The pungent stench followed in his wake like a nasty cologne; wafting through the halls long after the fact and even seeping into the control room. Though it only affected a few of us, nevertheless it was nasty, like someone died. A stinky reminder that “Mr. X was here.”

Which, I guess, allowed him the last laugh.