POOP, THERE IT IS
Sharing made easier with jokes
Saturday. 11 a. m. I’ve agreed to teach a radio class in the country. Due to an anal nature, I’m usually not inclined toward sharing — knowledge, pie — but I’m trying to change. Also, teaching the class means getting to stay in a country cottage, and my wife, Emily, loves country cottages.
On the drive out of town, I eat constantly. A road trip is like a state of grace and so one can eat anything one wants with impunity. At least this is what I tell myself as I pour Raisinettes down my throat from a king-size box.
12: 45 p. m. At a rest stop, I hand the driving over to Emily so that I can concentrate more fully on my candy consumption. To this end, I purchase a can of root beer.
The beverage is so cold that I develop an icecream headache. I deal with the infirmity stoically, squeezing my hands into fists and barely emitting a squeal. I wonder if during the golden era of frivolous lawsuits, when restaurants were being sued for coffees that were too hot, if anyone ever sued over a beverage that was too cold.
“Your honour,” the lawyer would say, “my client was forced to make funny faces for 10 seconds.”
2: 30 p. m. When we arrive at the radio class, the students are seated outside around a fire pit. I join them, but no matter where I sit, the smoke seems to always blow directly into my eyes. This causes them to tear heavily. I wonder if my watery eyes will lend emphasis and passion to my teachings.
3: 45 p. m. I tell the students the story of how, when I was starting out in radio, I attempted to actually build a radio.
“I thought, what could be more satisfying than listening to a radio story I produced on a radio that I built.”
Those tubes and coils sat on my kitchen table, unassembled, for close to a year. I couldn’t eat a bowl of cereal without being made guilty and anxious about my failure. Throwing it all out proved the most satisfying part of the whole endeavour.
“The point is,” I say wildly uncertain of what the point is, “being creative means constantly risking failure.”
To punctuate my remark, I wipe a single tear from my eye.
5 p. m. On the way back from radio class, a Raisinette I’m eating slips from my fingers and lands in the grass outside our cottage. I do not pick it up for I have a plan. I just have to wait for the perfect moment to enact it.
6: 05 p. m. Returning to our cottage after a country stroll, I point down to the Raisinette. “What’s that?” I ask. Emily shrugs. “Looks like rabbit poop,” I say. Squatting down, I place the Raisinette in my hand. “Feels like rabbit poop.” “What are you doing?” Emily asks. Lowering my nose to the candy, I say, “Smells like rabbit poop.”
And then, I pop the Raisinette into my mouth. “Tastes like rabbit poop,” I say. “Good thing I didn’t step in it.”
After some silence, Emily asks if I have any Raisinettes left. I hand her the last remaining ones from my pocket. There is no doubt about it: I’m learning to share.