The Accident

March is the anniversary month of my first gig with my band Vote for Pedro. I remember that first time playing with them very well, but that isn’t what this story is about. No, unfortunately this story is about the manipulation of humiliation. It just so happens to begin with the band.

After a few shows with the band as a substitute drummer, they decided that I cut the mustard, and in one awkward conversation in an alley behind a bar, we asked each other if I could be the drummer in the band. There was an uncomfortable pause and then we both agreed to join and be joined.

There is a catch, however. When you’re the new guy in a band, like many clubs, societies or cults, there is an initiation process. Sometimes the initiation is physical and you have to do something taxing, strange or, better yet, both. Other times, it’s psychological in nature and the initiation takes the form of mental torture. Mine was to be easy. I simply had to answer a specific, extremely embarrassing question and be absolutely honest about it. The answer lies back in the late spring of 1987.

June afternoons before school had let out for the summer were positively lovely. The sun would take its time setting, and the mid-70-degree weather would be most agreeable for outdoor adventures. At 13, one of the best adventures for my buddy Dave and I would be to grab our fishing poles and tackle boxes and pedal our bikes to the local fishing hole, which was about a mile outside of town.

Denmark Pond was a small body of water, about 50 yards across at its widest point. If you were to ask a 3-year-old to draw you a circle, that would be the general shape of the pond. It was ideal for fishing for three reasons: the water was shallow enough to allow for either bottom or bobber fishing, you could walk around the pond in about five minutes to get to just about any spot the sun was striking, and the Department of Fish and Game made sure it had far too many trout for the ecosystem.

Dave and I had a late start getting to the pond on our bicycles that day and had only about an hour of fishing time before we would have to head home for dinner. There was only one other person out at the pond at the time, an older boy that we knew was in high school. We also knew he was a decent fisherman, so Dave and I set up over by him — not too close to disturb his particular fishing rituals or to fish in “his” space, but close enough that we could figure out what he was using for bait.

The three of us were chatting casually as we set up our fishing poles by casting out into the pond, letting the lead weight sink our line to the bottom, allowing between one and two feet of line to float up into the fishes’ swimming area. The hook floats there with the aid of a marshmallow and worm torso, giving the fish a horrible two-thirds portion of a disgusting s’more. However, fish don’t get many sweets down there, so you know if they see a marshmallow, they’re going to bite it. You would, too.

Once the line is in the water, the trick is to pull it tight enough so there is no slack between the end of the pole and the weight at the floor of the pond without scooting the weight closer to shore. This tightness is essential to sensing when the fish bites the hook and starts to tug on the line. If done correctly, the end of the pole starts to twitch and then tug sharply up and down, creating a tell-tale signal that the fish has taken the bait. Boom, you set the hook, reel the poor little creature in and then bash its head against a rock. They don’t show THAT on your fancy fishing programs, do they?

Once the line is tight, there is a certain amount of waiting. Sometimes, the fish have just had a meal and are letting the bugs and larvae settle before taking a chance on a magically hovering piece of puffed sugar. For this waiting period, the fisherman employs a stick with a “Y” formation at the top to prop up their pole on the ground. This is exactly what I had done.

We fished for a while and chatted about all the important 13-year-old junk. The older boy was joining in a bit, too. We were telling jokes back and forth as it got closer to the time when we had to leave for home and dinner. I was crouched next to my fishing pole, tightening my line when it happened.

I don’t remember the joke Dave told. I remember it being a witty comeback line to a joke that had been presented only seconds before. I was overcome by the quickness and cleverness of the words that Dave had just casually thrown back to the original teller, which could have been me or the other boy. It didn’t matter; Dave’s line was unexpectedly funnier. It caught me off-guard, and I expressed my reaction out of both ends.

“HA!” I said with a quick burst.

As Dave later described it to me, he was proud of the joke and of the reaction he had received from me; but as he looked at me a split second after I laughed, he watched all the color drain from my face as if in that moment I had just realized my parents weren’t going to live forever. I went white as a sheet of double-bleached printer paper.
I had pooped my pants.

Now for those of you who have no memory of ever fouling yourself, let me assure you that the act is actually far more disgusting than it sounds. It had taken me COMPLETELY by surprise as I certainly wasn’t hearing a persistent ringing of nature’s call. Although I would later find that the damage was minimal, there was no mistaking that damage had been done. It was a feeling as if I had hit something with my car and found the dent in my fender to be much smaller than I had thought it was. However, big or little, the deductible for the accident is still $500.

“Steve, are you okay?” Dave asked with genuine concern.

I wanted Dave to continue with the concern instead of what was inevitable: close to three consecutive hours of uninterrupted laughter. I considered faking an aneurysm or a heart attack, but instead I just stared back at Dave like I was dying of a slow stab wound to the belly.

This was the fleeting moment of quiet before the storm. Like all people my age or otherwise, we don’t care to be teased. I had a terrible fear of it. Although I dreaded what was about to happen at the time, I reflect back on Dave’s actions as a rather progressive treatment of this unhealthy psychological state of worrying about what others think of you. My exposure therapy for my fear of embarrassment was about to begin immediately.

“Uh, I … uh.” How do you tell another 13-year-old boy that although you’ve been out of diapers for 11 years, it may have been a premature transition?

“Um, I think I crapped my pants.” There was no hiding from the truth. This was an issue I had to take care of, and Dave was going to find out sooner or later. The sooner I told him, the sooner the clock would start on his laughing and the sooner it would be over and he could assist the friend who was incapable of controlling his own colon. Pity me because it was terrible, for I would pity you, too, in a similar situation.

As Dave began to convulse with laughter, I realized I had to do some form of cleanup and set off on the very unpleasant, wide-stance waddle over to the bushes. I will spare you the details, but will let you know that there is still a monogrammed handkerchief buried in the ground at Denmark pond. I believe that, even with limited resources, I was still able to clean myself to a state equal to or better than 95% of the characters in Les Miserables.

When I returned to Dave, who was kind enough to pull it together upon my arrival, it dawned on me that riding a bicycle seat all the way home was out of the question. With this unexpected setback, there would be no way we were going to make it home as expected. With cell phone technology still at the “bag and phone” stage, nobody in Kittitas had one; therefore, calling the house for assistance was impossible.

We waited until we were late enough that one of my parents would drive out to check up on us. Luckily, it was my father with the pickup truck, so we could throw our bikes in the back. Unluckily, it was my father with the pickup truck, and I had to explain why I would be riding home with my knees on the seat, facing the rear of the vehicle.
How do you explain such an embarrassing thing to the man you most want to earn respect from? Do you pass it off as not a big deal? Do you remind him that at least he isn’t bailing you out of jail? Do you try to pass the blame onto him for doing a lousy job potty-training you?

I just owned up to it. After Dad’s initial disbelief and restrained disappointment, we all had an uncomfortable chuckle (actually, Dave’s chuckle was rather comfortable). With my butt in the air and the windows rolled down, we made one of the longer one-mile drives that I can remember through the early dusk light and finally into the parking stall of my parents’ house in town.

I went straight into the house, past the kitchen and into the bathroom without a word to my mother. As I completed a sanitization of my body that rivaled the one in the movie Silkwood, I heard my mother exclaim, “YOU’RE KIDDING!” followed by the long, low tone Mom makes gathering breath when she is about to start a big laugh. Mom’s laugh always makes me feel better.

With fresh, clean clothes on, I took my underpants out to the far corner of the garden, dug a deep hole and buried the evidence of my shame. I felt better after they were buried. It wasn’t closure, but I wouldn’t ever have to look at them again. I just hoped our dog wouldn’t dig them up.

That afternoon, I learned a big lesson about owning an embarrassing moment. I had survived one of the most humiliating things I could think of at the time. That one terrible hour, prepared me for a lifetime of ignoring the horrors of what people thought about me and gave me courage to be honest about myself. It also armed me with the tool of weaponized humility.

So to the band’s incredibly embarrassing question, “Have you ever crapped your pants?” I quickly answered yes with no hesitation and with no reaction on my face. They were surprised that I would answer such a question with such gusto and without the slightest hint of shame. I gave them the abridged version of the story as if I were telling them how I painted the inside of a closet, first with primer, then with paint. You know, it was no big deal.

This reaction relaxed two of the three of them to tell me about their stories of soiling themselves. Of course I used their own attempt to shame me as an initiation to turn the tables and shame them worse.

“So, when I had my accident, it was my body malfunctioning to laughter as a 13-year-old with all kinds of changes going on with my body,” I began as I prepared for the spike. “However, you two just told me that as grown men, you messed yourselves quite recently as a result of poor decision-making skills and not being able to judge distance and time.”
The one band member with a clean record (and apparently underpants) laughed. My initiation was complete and I had proved that I wasn’t to be messed with. I had won.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Also, trying to initiate me by seeing how hard it is to embarrass me is going to disappoint you every time. If you wager that you can humiliate me by pushing me over the line, I will double-raise that bet and call you every time.

I have found that owning the moment and embarrassment with a little humble truth can go a long way in controlling personal anxiety and building confidence. I have found that all the unhealthy guilt and shame we carry around with ourselves matters far less to others than we think it does. That’s kind of why I don’t mind sharing this story. Not only do I think it is funny, but I hope to prove that once you let an embarrassing moment go, you free yourself from the burden of shame, and that’s the Damm Truth.