It was my senior year of high school and I was 17. It was fall, and marching band season was in full swing. Our band director had decided that we weren’t good enough at our competition show. That day, instead of rehearsing our wind ensemble music, we would rehearse marching band music. I went to get my marimba out and my stomach started to rumble. “Oh,” I thought to myself, “I’ll use the bathroom after class. It’s no big deal.”
As the rehearsal went on I became more and more confident in the music I was playing and less and less confident that I would be able to make it to the end of class. There was still one class period left in the day, and I kept telling myself that I could use the bathroom during the class change. As time goes on and I grow older I realize that this was one of the biggest lies I have ever told myself. There were about ten minutes left in the period when I felt another rumbling in my stomach. It was almost pointless to ask to use the bathroom now, so I had to gamble.
Five minutes left in the period. Rumbling. If this was Vegas, I’d be out fifty bucks. It was full blown Code Brown.
Panic immediately set in. I was almost an adult, about to be in college, how could I have let this happen?
I still have one more class to sit through. It was a review, I didn’t think I could miss it. I can’t own up to this, I can’t admit to an office aid that I did this. I can’t clean myself up between the five minutes left in the class period. I’ve lost my favorite pair of jeans. How can I tell my parents I did this? How can I say “hey, I need a new pair of jeans because I gambled and lost?”
Panic and anxiety had put me in the mindset of a toddler. I was wearing only a thin cotton diaper and any movement could ruin my day. I had to be careful. I had to get to the bathroom, use whatever I could to clean up, wash my hands and head to class. I made it to the bathroom in one minute. Thank god that there was nobody in the restroom that I had to share this horrifying moment with. As I sat down I quickly realized that there was no way that thin, one-ply commercial toilet paper was going to help, but my choices and time were limited. I did the best I could in three minutes, and left myself with about a full minute to get to my next class. I couldn’t let anybody think anything was wrong.
I forget whatever we did in class that day. I just remember was sitting there for almost an hour. Waiting for someone to notice or waiting to go home. I swear I saw every second go by on the clock.
After the class ended I still had to drive my brother and neighbor home. The problem was I couldn’t tell them what had happened and I couldn’t ditch them to go home. They were chatting with everyone and their mother and all I could do was try and rush them out the door. Smarter people would have tried to get to the bathroom and do better damage control. Maybe an honest person would have told everyone what happened and garnered sympathy. All I could do was stand and wait nervously for them to decide to leave.
Once I got home I had to deal with my pants. The easy answer was to throw them out. Any rational person can do it. It’s not hard, take them off, and put them in the trash can. Nope. I had the notion that I had to save that pair of pants and underwear. So I found a bucket, filled it up with warm water and bleach, and let it sit there for a day. I finally made it to the shower where I could wash off all of my fear, panic, and shame.
I still wear the pants to this day. They look like really cool charcoal and gray acid wash jeans. I was too lazy to do laundry one day and needed a pair of shorts. I cut them off just above the knee. Whenever I wear those people always ask where I got them. It’s not a satisfying answer to say “Oh, I just made them.” Nine times out of ten people keep badgering me for the real story.
—Adam Hribar, Staff Member