Turd Boy Goes To Church Camp: A True Story

June, 1986. I am 11 years old. I have been sent to church camp against my will. We arrive at an old, run-down cabin and I notice immediately that the bathroom stall is missing it's door. A row of sinks sit directly in front of it, so the toilet is completely exposed to anyone who might be passing by. Now, I already have a mild phobia about using public bathrooms (at school, all of the worst bullying would take place there), so this is a complete nightmare. I realize that there is absolutely no way I can use the bathroom this week. Taking a leak: that's okay, but I decide that no crapping will take place over the next 5 days. Its a drastic measure, but I'm thinking that if I eat light and avoid any sudden, jarring movements, I might be able to make it. So, I unpack and settle into the church camp routine of swimming, attending dull sermons and playing baseball. Here is how the "no crapping" attempt plays out:

Day 1- no problem.

Day 2- so far so good.

Day 3- I pass gas and nearly crap my pants. It's a close call and I have to spend awhile just breathing slowly and desperately trying to coax the turd back in. I'm talking to it, pleading with it, "Just come on home, baby, please, just come on back". Afterwards I feel okay, but the pressure is now steady and impossible to ignore. I keep telling myself, "Two more days, two more days, you can make it".

Day 4- My ass hurts from constantly holding the muscles there together so tightly. I've developed a sharp pain in my side. I'm in too much discomfort and too close to crapping my pants to participate in the various camp activities, I just tell everyone I am sick and they, thankfully, leave me alone.

Day 5- This is it, last day. Most of my lower torso is now engulfed in a great deal of pain, but if I can just hold on until afternoon I'll be able to make it home and end the misery. I've spent almost two whole days just sitting in the cabin, trying to avoid people. A friend of mine (who doesn't know the situation, it's a well-kept secret) tells me that I should atleast go with him down to the lake. The idea is actually somewhat appealing since the lake has two paddleboats that campers are allowed to use during the day. I'm thinking: the paddleboat...its a low-impact activity, I can handle that...I'll just let my friend do the paddling and it will give me a chance to go out and get some fresh air. So, I agree to go along and we head down to the lake. The paddleboats are a popular thing at camp, so we have to wait in line for a bit, which sucks since standing up for any length of time really hurts. Finally, one of the boats comes back in and we hop on. My friend paddles around, heading out to the middle of the small lake. Its cool for June, there's a pleasant wind blowing and I think: hey, this is actually kind of nice. Then the pain in my side begins to intensify. Unbearably. It feels like I am being stabbed in the guts, so I cringe and gesture towards the shore, trying to get my friend to hurry back. He laughs and says, "Dude, if you're gonna puke, just go in the lake. Try to hold it though, everyone is watching". And he's right, there's a lot of people on shore waiting for the boat. I try my slow-breathing/coaxing trick. I try to focus on calming thoughts- nice weather, no school for three months, there's a- whoa. Suddenly I stand up. The boat tilts from side to side and my friend yells, "Hey! Sit down!" I respond by articulating the following phrase: "Whuh. Whuh....mmmnnnnnnNNNN!!!!" In an instant I whip off my pants, hop into the water and just go to town with it. The charade is over. Verily, my Dark Night of the Pant comes to an end as I am both spiritually and physically unencumbered. Holy is the release, immense the relief, and in that moment I know the face of God. I feel an ecstasy that is utterly indescribable, born, not of pleasure, but of the harrowing depths of inhuman suffering and its sweet, sweet dissolution.

The happiness lasts for roughly one second. After that, reality sets in and I'm pretty much Brando in the last scene of Apocalypse Now. Also, I can't help but notice that I am unable. To stop. Shitting. This is unfortunate since, having gone into the water doing a belly flop, my head does not surface first. No, my other end pops out and, in front of everyone, the coal train is leaving the station. Bad for Matt, traumatic for the onlookers. My friend, the people on shore...here they are, just wanting to have a nice visit to the lake on a beautiful day, and instead they're subjected to the unholy vision of a half-naked Matt, screaming and shitting his brains out. Images, lots of them, are running through my head; for example, scene cuts to:

That afternoon and what I imagine to be an adorable suburban home. There's a white picket fence and a perfectly manicured lawn. Little Janey, sunburned and smiling, rushes inside screaming, "Mommy! Daddy! I'm home! I'm home!" Dad puts the newspaper aside, Mom stops knitting and asks, "So, how was church camp, Janey?" Janey hops up and down, all excited, and says, "Oh it was so much fun! I got to roast marshmallows and play softball and learn about Jesus! Then, on the last day, this kid's ass exploded, it was awesome!"

Anyway, I surface and find that my friend, far from being traumatized, is having a good laugh at my expense. He points at me and, to the people on shore, yells: "He just sank my battleship!" I hate him. I hate him so much. I dress, reach shore. Some people are laughing (the boys mostly), some are appalled (the girls). The remainder of the day is filled by a series of awkward, yet obligatory, conversations. First up is the camp nurse who, given her job title, has at least a reasonable context within which to proceed: Are you sick? Feeling okay? Did you eat something weird? I answer the questions and head back to the cabin. The next conversation is with my pastor. He has been at camp all week as a counselor, and I guess feels he has to ask something. But, after staring at me for a bit, all he can manage is: "So. You...wow, you crapped in the lake, huh?" When this question is asked by the man who baptized me only two months earlier, I think: "It all makes sense now. There is no God. There is one true creator...and his name is Satan. This life, this world, this universe: it is all hell and Man is the kindling for it's eternal fires."

Anyway, that's it. The week is over. I had what I thought was a simple mission- not crapping- and ended up achieving quite the opposite. As bad as these events were, the nickname I acquired may have actually been worse. No matter where I went or how far I traveled, for years after this...I was Turd Boy.