Ruth and I attended a concert last Sunday night. It was a nostalgic walk through the history of Motown. We had a great trip. We knew all of the songs and danced in our seats for the full hour and forty-five minutes.
Prior to the concert I stepped into the restroom to prepare for the event. As I looked into the mirror I flashed back to a concert that I attended during my sophomore year at Western. I took a girl to see Jay and the Americans at the Read Field House. They were a hot group at the time. Jay Black was the lead singer, the second in a string of three Jays. He could hit the high notes that were required in many of their hits: She Cried, Crying, Cara Mia, This Magic Moment, Come a Little Bit Closer, and Only In America.
I would have loved the concert if I could have given my full attention to the music, but I couldn’t. I’d like to say that I devoted my time to my date, but I didn’t. If I could remember her name I’d share it, but I don’t. I went out with her only the one time. She was nice enough, and I expect that she would have said, “yes’, if I asked, but I didn’t.
We had assigned bleacher seats. We were in the middle of a row with about 15-20 people seated to both our left and right. We settled in, and I was looking forward to hearing the group sing. They opened with “Only in America”, a great song. Within the first stanza or two, my gut started to rumble. I had to fart, but I couldn’t, or rather, I wouldn’t. I couldn’t be sure if the expulsion would be smooth or deadly. I couldn’t risk offending anyone, so I sat in silence, clenched my cheeks, and wallowed in misery.
Perhaps you’ve been there yourself.
In any case, I sat and considered my options. If I attempted to get up and excuse myself to use the restroom, I’d be butt to face with some unsuspecting coed or frat boy. I didn’t want to offend either, so I just sat. I was afraid that one false move would lead to an ill-timed, smelly disaster. I hoped that if I got up, I could struggle by but I chose to suffer in silence.
I believe that my clenched teeth may have looked like I was smiling. I hope so. There wasn’t a lot of conversation because people were engrossed in the music. I was thankful for that. Each time the group transitioned from one song to the next, I could hear my gut rumble. I hoped that no one else could.
The concert lasted about 100 continuous hours. There were no breaks. No intermissions.
When it was time to leave, I made sure that everyone around me was standing. I double clenched and rose slowly. I timed each careful step with the noise of the crowd. I could probably avoid the noise that a fart might make, but you can never be sure of the aroma. Caution guided my every move.
We headed out to the parking lot. The build up was so great that I was sure that the noise would be deafening. I couldn’t risk even the most minor release. I walked my date to the passenger side, opened the door for her, and once she was settled, I moved to the rear of the car. I opened the trunk and let her rip. I used the noise from the squeaking trunk as a diversion. Leaves fell from the trees.
Thankfully a gentle breeze helped disperse the gas. I felt sorry for those who might be downwind, but by the time the gas reached anyone else, it could have come from anywhere. It took an eternity to clear my pipes, and I waited a bit longer to ensure that no lingering signs remained in my slacks. Once I was confident that all was clear, I got in the car. I made some lame excuse about opening the trunk, and we were on our way.
The rest of the evening was uneventful. We stopped for something to eat, went to the student union to shoot pool, and eventually I took her back to the dorm. It was the week-end so our date ended just prior to 1:00 a.m. We said our goodbyes, agreed that we should go out again sometime, but we didn’t.
The memory of that night, and what might have happened, still haunts me. That’s why for the past fifty plus years, I stop in the restroom before attending any concert. You never know when you might want to dance in your seat like we did last Sunday.