One Brutal Hour on the Lucky Star Bus (in two parts)

I'd only taken my shirt off on a Lucky Star bus once. And that was 25 minutes ago. Now, for the second time in an hour, I was sitting in a 3 foot x 4 foot cubicle resting atop the bus' engine as we barreled down I-95 toward Boston.

But Boston was the last thing on my mind. Before I could even think about walking across the Public Garden, I had to finish wrangling the toughest, hardest, slimiest doogan I've ever encountered in my life.

This story of how my shirt ended up on the dirt floor of a bus' bathroom on Sunday night started on Friday at lunch. I had sushi. At that point, I didn't think anything of the slightly slimy tuna. That the shrimp tasted a bit shrimpier? Fuck it, add some more wasabi. That night I was in Harlemville celebrating my friend Sam's birthday with fresh lobster drenched in melted butter. I went to bed late, woke up early and downed two cups of coffee, a Dunkin Donuts egg and chees bagel and headed out to play volleyball. The rest of the day consisted of me jumping, diving and in any number of ways mashing my three previous meals into a soon-to-be brick of fecal matter lodged securely in my lower intestine and, soon, upper colon. To celebrate my volleyball partner's birthday, the same day as Sam's, we had Indian food. And the stage was set.

So here I am. Sweaty, topless and perched tenuously on top of a plastic porto-potty-on-wheels. The Indian food has cruised through my digestive system. The sushi-lobster-bagel has set up camp in my colon. Something's got to give. And it does--every few minutes as a fresh New Delhi cluster bomb sneaks past my brick and squelches into the slowly filling chromium bowl beneath me. After 40 minutes (70 minutes total after my first trip) of sporadic splatter I looked at the toilet paper. Empty. Of course. Of fucking course. In my back pocket--my e-ticket on printer paper. I ripped off a corner, folded, cringed and wiped; scraped, actually. A sheet of paper later and I stood up. Sweaty, topless, and sore.

What I left behind was truly disgusting. The first shit sortie had congealed, stuck to wall of the pot and refused the stream of blue sterility that rushed across it when I, as per instructions, PUSHED and HELD the grimy red flush button. Early on in the battle another passenger had rattled the door. Now, I was slightly afraid to be seen with what I left behind. Just as I was standing in the tiny cubicle contemplating what to do, the bus ground to a halt in front of a Chinese restaurant. Everyone got off. I snuck out-trying not to think of the now-rock-hard trail of formerly watery fesces I'd just unleashed.

I walked into the restaurant, took a deep breath and thought--just thought--about eating some fruit salad. The brick still inside me noticed and settled a bit, as if to say, 'I'm still here' hahaha.

It wasn't until three days later when another Lucky Star--and its glorious C18--descended upon the camped out seafood and broke its horrible grip. As for the Lucky Star bus and its tiny bathroom, well, it's what I left behind.