Outhouse Gauntlet

When I was little, we spent every June visiting relatives in Kentucky. All their little houses were clustered on one sprawling piece of verdant land called Green’s Valley. It had been the site of the general store owned by my great-grandpa, Les Green. My grandpa was the oldest of Les’s thirteen children. Half a dozen of them never left the lush acreage.

On the meandering trail between the houses, there was an outhouse. It served as the only place of relief for my Uncle Sanford, Uncle Ding, and Aint Dudy. And sometimes even a visit from the ancient Aint Morbree.

Morbree was my grandfather’s aunt. She must have been at least 113. You know how some people smoke those rough, brown corncob pipes? She was that pipe; abrasive, eldritch, mean. Grandpa said she “gummed the Burleigh”. Morbree was a constant tobacco chewer with a total of three teeth in her head. And I was told to be nice because she was old, but everything that came from that gaping brown maw was meant to scare kids. The worst thing in the world was to be told to “kiss Aint Morbree”. Her favorite thing was to whisper things as she leaned in for that juicy, leafy smooch. Things like, “You go to the outhouse, you watch out for that shit pit snake. It’ll crawl right up ya!”

Ding and Dudy were my absolute favorite people in the world. Every summer, they would have a pack of random dogs. They would play music on piano and guitar. They would churn ice cream. They did not have a lot, but whenever we came Dudy would make huge chicken dinners with butterbeans, fresh strawberries, cloud biscuits.

During the day, I would sit on the porch swing with Dudy and a dog or two. Ding, always wearing an easy smile, would throw frisbee and push me on the tire swing. After supper, Ding, Sanford, and my notoriously straight-laced grandpa would sneak downstairs and play blue Redd Foxx records on the victrola. We were not allowed down there when the “men were listening”.

So, when the motel was too full one night, Ding and Dudy were my first choice of where to stay. They were so loving and warm. I never considered that for all they did have, they did NOT have indoor plumbing.

I was a sheltered, chubby six-year-old with a huge imagination. Grandma Lil had tucked me in, making sure I did not have to pee. Dudy came in to say goodnight. “You shore you don’t need a jawr, hon?”

I wasn’t sure what she meant, but I shook my head. I was exhausted after a full day of running with the dogs and churning ice cream. My head hit the fluffy pillow and I was out for five full minutes.

Minute six, I lay there eyes wide open at the night sounds in a strange place. There was no air conditioner, no lull of white noise. There were shadows in the curtains of bugs just outside the screen. The crickets must have been huge to be so loud. A barn owl screeched its high pitch restlessness. I was afraid to move. I lay still as a stone. In the distance, I swear I could hear Morbree chew and spit.

Then the heat kicked in. 105 degrees baking me under covers in layers of cotton underpants, cotton tee shirt, cotton nightgown all drenching through. The more I breathed in, the more sweat poured off me.

And there it was. I had to pee.

I had to make it 50 yards from the bed to the outhouse in the dark. I suddenly got the jar question.

But it was too late now.

My bare feet hit the floor and crossed the expanse of the room, trying not to wake Lil in the other bed. She would have been angry with me for having to go.

I made it out the back door, closing the creaky screen door hinge softly. I was feeling confident, so I leapt off the porch and sprinted down the path toward the woods.

The confidence left and was replaced by urgency. I had to go. Then urgency whipped itself into a fear hurricane. What stood between me and an empty bladder was daunting.

The first thing I hit was the henhouse. The hens were all sweet and dozy. I would help collect their eggs in the morning. But Cracker, the giant Banty rooster was out. Cracker was easily half my size, bright red down to his wings. He earned his name for being as explosive as a firecracker. Cracker hated kids. He liked nothing better to peck my knees and shins. And there he stood square in my path, clawing the dirt. He eyed me and cocked his head.

I ran like hell and Cracker was on my heels, trying to get a good peck in. He only stopped because Sanford’s dog, BadbadLeroyBrown, bolted out of the woods after him. Badbad was the best dog ever! He had no use for Cracker and he loved kids.

It was quiet and I kept moving forward. The barn owl started screaming again, an eerie blend of train whistle and 60’s horror actress. I was shaking a little. Partly because I was a fat kid outrunning an evil rooster, mainly because I was scared.

As I rounded the copse of oak trees, Uncle Hube’s hunting dogs let out a heart-curdling bay. An alarm that someone strange was in the back woods. I was hoping it was just me.

My bladder was threatening to burst. I had to move quick. I tried to run a bit, but the trees now blocked out any light. I slipped in something wet and slimy, twisting my foot outwards. I landed on my hands and knees. My foot throbbed and I began to sob softly. I felt like Peter Rabbit in the watering can. I could only think I slipped on the guts of some kid that Cracker finally did away with. That maybe it wasn’t the barn owl screaming at all.

As I sat there on all fours, Badbad ran up and licked my face. He looked at me with his one big brown eye that sparkled in the dark like a beacon of hope. I hugged him and he nudged me to get up. Badbad only had one eye when Sanford got him. See, Uncle Sanford also only had one eye. They were soul mates.

“Whatcha find there, Leroy?” Sanford’s voice was soft.

“It’s me.”

“Wella look like you found that melon I dropped.” Sanford rubbed his stubbly chin. “That damn ole Cracker, he take off after anybody he think steal his melon. Damn bird!”

“I’m going to the outhouse.”

“Wella chile that is not any information I would need. Good luck then. C’mon Leroy!” And he faded back into the trees like a whisper.

I smelled my sticky hands and it was indeed melon.

I was limping now, edging toward the dark little wooden hut with the classic crescent moon cut in the door. The wind hissed through the leaves and suddenly Morbree’s words came floating back to me. “You go to that outhouse, you watch out for that shit pit snake. It’ll crawl right up ya!”

I burst into tears and wiped those tears with pink, sticky melon hands.

“There ain’t no snake.” I told myself. “Aint Morbree lies to scare kids. Ain’t no snake. Ain’t no snake.”

I said it out loud, plodding forward steadily.

I made a little song, drowning out the dadgum screaming owl.

I stood at the door of the outhouse, the edge of the necessary abyss, the gateway to the lair of the shit pit snake. I seized the handle and flung the door wide. “Ain’t no snake!”

As I opened the door, I was hit full in the chest with a gout of brown pulp. I staggered back as the lump spread and dripped own my nightgown.

“Close the door, damn kid!”

Apparently, I had surprised Aint Morbree. Tobacco shot from her mouth and she stood up faster than any 113-year-old woman should.

“Sorry. Sorry.” I could not say anything else. I don’t think she even knew precisely what kid I was. So I very quietly hid around the corner and peed in the bushes. At this point, I was covered in exploded melon, gummed Burleigh, mud, crud, and everything else.

I crouched there, waiting for her to leave. It seemed like hours.

Finally, she wobbled out, stuffed a new wad between her cheek and gum, and headed toward her house. Just as she turned, I saw Cracker contemplating giving chase.

I hobbled back to Ding and Dudy’s house. Dudy was out on the porch swing, looking at the stars.

“Hon, what in the world? Well, I swan…” She came out to greet me.

“Don’t tell Grandma Lil.”

“Come on in here, honey. Let’s get a towel. I got a nightie – might be like a ball gown on you.”

I told Dudy my whole adventure and she kept my secret for years. Although I hope she told Ding. There was so much love between them, there was no room for secrets.