Chris Hutchins

Shame of Thrones hits the road

Chris Hutchins

Each week, I consider whether or not to respond to the piece from the week before. This week the internal deliberation turned into an intense internal debate. As you most likely know, Damara connected with a large number of people when she related her issues with one of her “quirks.”

Should I take the high road and act as if she never divulged her waste willies, or should I dive right in with my own eccentricity? Maybe I could go off on a tangent and talk about something similarly gross and just as normal, something like boogers? Like how sometimes when you pick a really good one and you can almost feel it in the back of your head? No, I have to meet this head on, or should I say rebuttal?

I’m pretty regular. I plan my day around a predictable, no hassle elimination each morning. Even way back when Damara and I still had that smooth wrinkle free skin you don’t fully appreciate in your early 20s, I was a morning man. When we set out on the bus ride, I figured I would have no problem, I would just keep on being my normal self and find a suitable “Travel Throne” sometime early, and it was only a day and a half long expedition. At that time, I had only a foggy idea of what Damara calls the “Home Throne Advantage.”

It just so happened that we didn’t make a stop during my usual time. Plus, “the feeling” would pass just before we would make a stop at a “nice place.” What you don’t realize when you book your first tour of duty (not that kind) on the Old Grey Dog is that once you are in the bus system, you’re in until you have arrived at your destination. This means you will be subject to bus terminal after bus terminal. I went once. I went once in the bathroom on the bus! Ironically, a couple of times that I could go while we were at a terminal it would just happen to be one that did not allow for onboard passengers to disembark, they were pick up only. I remember watching a few bus terminals fade into the distance as I wondered if a lonely stall was calling my name, if fate had cruelly kept me apart from “the one.”

It was just before dawn on the second day when I finally gave in to the urge. I walked back to the rear of the bus to a tiny stainless steel door that was marked “Lavatory.” Is it possible that it was smaller than an airplane commode? I think so but I’m pretty sure I blocked most of this memory, so don’t hold me to it. I really don’t know whose experience was worse. Was it hers because she held it for longer? Or mine because I was nervously sitting next to a powder keg about to blow. Plus, I actually went in a moving Greyhound bus. I had to hold my arms out against the walls to steady myself and in retrospect I don’t think Greyhound ever really intended anyone to bring anything more than a “water offering” to that throne. The end result was less than satisfying I assure you my friends. I suppose I should be grateful that I didn’t have to deal with something like an eye peering through a stall crack at me, but I did have to strut back up the aisle in what had to be one of history’s top 100 walks of shame.