That waiting moment.
We grow up being conditioned to wait and to expect some sort of reward afterwards. So we have that waiting moment; we wait to blow out the candles so we can have a piece of cake and open our birthday presents. We wait Christmas morning to see what Santa brought. We wait for the seat belt sign to go off so we can finally exit the plane.
I was standing and waiting for our steam boat to dock. Not that any reward awaited me but I still felt that conditioned excitement and apprehension that we were taught from childhood. Of course this was a simple and low tech paddle wheel steamer, fancy maneuvers with twin screws and bow thrusters were replaced by the curses of the captain and grunting strains of the boatmen on poles.
My responsibility during all of this? To wait and stay out of the way. So much for the graceful and regal entry scene; red carpet and marching bands were never a personal goal of mine anyhow. Thus our arrival at the small but bustling port of St. Charles was low key and relaxed; boring is a good term. Bustling referred to the couple of boys fishing, a dog sleeping in the sun and three laze-abouts looking at our steam boat in curiosity. Steam boats still being somewhat of an oddity and St. Charles being a very small town which was not yet feeling the effects of the economic recovery. St. Louis was already starting to bounce back from the Panic however that recovery was yet to be seen in St. Charles which was a full day’s travel away. The growth and economic health of the city was very dependent on traffic on the Missouri river and until the cities upstream began to grow it would remain a small town. Which is why I preferred to set up shop here rather than deal with the hassles of St. Louis.
Amos and Brin were familiar with this town and were the first off the boat once we were tied up. Brin because he knew of several pilings and fence posts which required his professional attention and teenaged Amos was just being a teenager. He was off the boat and on his way to Mick’s before I had even moved from my ‘waiting’ spot. It may have just been excess energy of youth but my bet was an urgent desire to visit the outhouse. I followed along at a sedate pace more fitting of my advanced age and station. Mick’s was the closest destination promising food & drink and while I wouldn’t call it ‘making a bee line’, I meandered in that general direction.
Meandering with a purpose is kind of an art form, anyone can take their time going somewhere but to truly be cool you have to mix a little saunter into that step while you meander. Think of ‘Joe Cool’ as portrayed by Snoopy in the Peanuts comic strip, the epitome of suave and very aware of it. That was me, I was the cool guy with the fancy new ride; you could hear me and see me coming ‘cuz I had a Steam Boat on a river full of oars and push poles. I hadn’t felt this cool since my young fourteen year old self had pulled up to my new school in my pickup truck. Of course it was a seventh thru ninth grade Middle School in the city, but I was a transplanted farm boy with a ‘School License’ from out of state and a ’64 Chevy Pickup Truck. So I drove to school that first day which neither the school administrators nor the police resource officer found too amusing. The trouble all started when I couldn’t find the student parking section, so I parked in a guest spot and went inside to ask. Things went downhill fast from there.
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Well the end result was to issue me a written warning and ignore the issue for the day. To get to that point I had to escort the officer and the principal out to my truck and let them get a grip on things from there. It was just a beat-up old farm truck, nothing special and no spoiled rich kid here. I was sternly instructed regarding the shotgun on the rifle rack so behind the seat that went but the rest of it was pretty much ‘old truck’ and didn’t scream out ‘entitled brat’ and all of my paperwork was in order. The upshot was that the officer followed me home that day and had a word with my mother; after that I was on the bus. It didn’t matter much though because word spreads quickly in any school and I was instantly the new, cool guy who had his own truck at fourteen.
Meandering along in the sunlight while enjoying pleasant memories is a nice way to pass a bit of your day. The breeze off the river seemed perfect and the sun was less than brutal, generally speaking it was very nice out. Life was very good right up until the attack came.
The first hit came right in the center of my gut, it doubled me over and knocked the breath out of me. I had no idea what had just happened, there was no warning and no prior indication of trouble. I was just gathering myself when the second attack occurred. I wasn’t sure what was happening but the ominous pressure from down below told me that finding a privy – and very, very soon at that – was now the most important thing in my life.
It is flat out impossible to saunter or meander whilst suffering a severe gastro-intestinal attack, the best I could manage was a half-stepping stilted walk. I must have looked like a drunken marionette as I tried to quick step it to the privy behind Mick’s. What seemed like an impossible mission to a privy that now seemed miles away. I didn’t bother to go through the pub, I took the side yard hoping to save critical seconds in the quest to avoid public soiling.
The cramps kept on coming and things were looking grim.