There's Something About Paul

We entered his apartment, a narrow band of space with denture-white walls, foldable furniture, and a vaguely Japanese motif. Paul apologized profusely for ‘the awful mess’ although everything in the room appeared to be in its proper place. Everything except for two crumpled balls of paper --- missed attempts at a three point shot --- near a trash can.

I settled in a beige sofa bed and Paul, fussing over something at the sink, asked if I wanted anything to drink. Coffee? Juice? Water? I could tell he was nervous. I was too. It was only my second eyeball ever.

I said ‘no thanks’ and asked Paul if I may use the c.r. If our date would end in a flurry of kisses, as I assumed it would, then I best make sure my breath was fresh as a bridal bouquet. ‘Sure, it’s over there,’ Paul said, his lips, pointing the way. ‘I’ll be right back,’ I said and strode towards the bathroom.

Soon as I closed the door behind me, soon as I switched on the light that gave the tiled surroundings a jaundiced glow, I was confronted with a stench that could easily resurrect the dead and kill them again. Self-preservation kicked-in and I ceased all respiratory functions at once.

I considered a quick departure but my curiosity got the best of me. I had to see ground zero, the source of the putrid smell. Against the strong chorus of protests in my head, I gingerly lifted the toilet lid and peered inside.

As the pervading miasma hinted, what lurked below wasn’t a pea-sized stool sample you place inside an empty film canister for lab examination. It was some dinosaur’s diarrhea, an archipelago with foamy reefs, a sign of a diseased digestive system. I was simultaneously appalled and fascinated. Ugh, how focken' gross! All that came from Paul? Wow!

After the initial shock-and-awe, I wondered: how could Paul be so sloppy, so indiscreet as to leave his marshy excrement unflushed? This porcine conduct was so unlike the Paul I knew, the Paul who was so anal about washing his hands before and after a meal. Surely someone else was responsible for this, not Paul.

Or perhaps the plumbing was out-of-order? But then why didn’t Paul give me a fair warning? Maybe he forgot about the soupy mess he made that morning? Or was this intentional, some kind of weird compatibility test? If the latter, then I was failing miserably because whatever romantic notions I may have had for Paul were quickly whirling down the drain.

Then a dilemma: to flush or not to flush. My first impulse was to flush, witness the sinking of this Titanic, hear the toilet’s guttural glub-glub-glub, and do Paul a favor. But then I realized, if I flushed and the latrine proved to be clogged, then I might cause a cataclysmic overflow which no amount of therapy or drugs could help me recover from. No flushing then.

I safely evacuated the room before the toxic fumes could permanently damage my lungs. Paul was sitting at the sofa bed, reading a magazine, legs suggestively spread apart.

‘Everything ok?’ he asked. ‘Yeah,’ I said, after inhaling a fresher air. I sat next to him and for a speckle in time, I thought I’d be able fumigate the image of his bowel movement off my memory. Forget everything, start anew. After all, it was just poop. Everybody poops. Even the Pope poops.

The room was saturated with awkward silence. I peered into Paul’s eyes --- into those dark brown orbs, brown with specks of green, brown, the fecal color, Loose Bowel Movement --- and I knew with utmost certainty that my romantic interest in Paul had already left the building and was, in fact, on a one-way charter plane trip to Anguilla.

‘Umm, Paul. I had a great time with you today, I really did. You’re a nice guy. But I think I have to go now,’ I said.

The resultant expression in Paul’s face --- crushed, tearful, resigned --- could have raised millions for a charity event. He knew exactly what my words meant, that I was no longer into him, that this would be our last meeting. I feared he might demand answers to such tough questions as ‘Why don’t you like me?’, ‘Where did I go wrong?’, and ‘Was it my turd?’ but luckily he didn’t. He just nodded his head, said it was nice meeting me, and bade me goodbye.

A huge disappointment, the whole thing was. Coming into our date, I had hoped to know Paul on a more personal level, bypass the slam-book questions, see the inner him. Little did I know that I would literally see the inner him. The watery contents of his entrails. Corn and carrots galore.

Sigh. Much as I liked the guy, it was just way too much information for a first date.