Plant-based Panic

The time I had a pants-demic during the pandemic

I shit myself. Not on purpose and not entirely by accident. I could blame the pandemic, my parents, or Burger King but the truth is I put myself in this situation.

Kate and our two little girls were self-quarantining like some of the nation for the last 3 weeks. We decide to venture out for a road trip to see my parents. They live 45 minutes away from our home at the northwest edge of Philadelphia. We could walk into the suburbs from where we are but we have that Philly zip code and for us that makes us members. The trip to my folks isn’t much of a journey so to call it a road trip is romantic. It’s an excuse to turn up a playlist, eat Doritos and point out stores with puns for names like Here’s The Scoop, Short Cutz, Glamour & Nails. Don’t you just love a good pun name for a store? It immediately tells you what they do and then you giggle. Or vice versa.

This is also the chance to do my classic bit for my family when we pass by the restaurant called MaGerks. I see the glowing green and black sign up ahead. I yell, “Ma Gerks!” in the most over-top, stereotypical bro way. My 8-year-old daughter, let’s call her Sophia, is in the backseat and rolls her eyes. “Here we go,” she says. We are about 20 yards away and I bite my bottom lip while bobbing my head. “Gonna go to MaGerks tonight!” I put my hand up for a high five but Kate leaves me hanging. We go around the bend with MaGerks looming by our side like the Colosseum. “See you for wingdings, MaGerks!” which signifies the end of the bit. Our three-year-old, Charlotte, chuckled from her car seat, but I suspect it was a pity laugh. To be clear, I know nothing about MaGerks. It most likely is a fine establishment filled with good food and good times. Something about the name, transports me to the inside. There I play flip cup in a tee shirt with openings on the side from my shoulder to my waist. I chest bump a dude named Rodney and slug my Yuengling. The whole place smells of beer-soaked socks. We continue and leave MaGerks in the rearview knowing that someday we’d see her again.

We are excited to visit my parents, even knowing we’ll stand in their driveway while they stand 40 feet away on their porch. Separated by an arbitrary social distance. One of the many strange things we’ve done during the pandemic. This is more than an in person hello, we are also bringing them groceries. Both in their 70s, they know they are at high risk for the coronavirus so they stay home and make meals from what they have. When I ask my mom for any grocery requests all she said she wanted was a whole roaster chicken. To her, a whole chicken could sustain them for days, weeks even. Chicken breast, chicken legs, chicken soup, chicken salad, etc. It comes from her upbringing.

My mom was one of five children growing up in Upper Darby, PA. Her father worked himself to a fatal heart attack and her mother was a housewife who had a nervous breakdown. My mom knows how to rough it. Every story from her childhood is sweet but has a wincing sadness. The kids got apples for Christmas or the time her parents splurged to buy a pint of ice cream from the store in July. My mom at the age of 7 put on a nice dress and was dispatched with a dime to get the ice cream. The store was 12 blocks away and she had to navigate a tough and desperate neighborhood to get to it. She got lost on the way home and found a police officer on the corner. He put her in his car and after telling him about a school landmark that was near her house, he brought her home. By the time she got there, the ice cream was milk chocolate chip soup. I suspect that the look on her family’s faces has stayed with her forever. While she grew up to become a successful business owner, she thrives in times of hardship and makes the most out of what she has.

I bought my parents three bags of groceries instead of one chicken. I pull into their driveway and pop the trunk. Our dog, Bodhi, is there. I don’t want to give the impression that we put our dog in a trunk. We have an SUV. A Kia Sportage. So I guess the spot behind the last seat is called the back? It’s like the observation car on a European train. The big bay window for your viewing pleasure looks onto the passing landscape. Bodhi has the best seat in the house. He’s not locked inside the trunk of a Chevy Seville. I give Bodhi’s head a tussle and grab at the bags’ paper handles. My mother comes out of the house first, staying close to the porch.

“Oh Gabriel, that’s too much!” she scolds, with her hands on her hips.

“You’ve got to have more than a whole chicken,” I yell, from under my mask and keeping my distance. “Where should I put these?” I hoist up the bags.

“In the garage, I laid down a blanket.” She says, her head tilted with a grateful smile.

I see two large quilts side by side on the garage floor. She knew I was showing up with more than one chicken just like I knew she would put her best blankets down for bagged groceries in a garage. Next to the blankets were sanitizing wipes and gloves. She even had a system ready.

My dad joins my mother’s side.

“You bring whiskey?” he asks, half-joking.

“There’s none left. You drank it all.” I quip. Me, Kate, my mom, my dad, my two daughters, all talk at once. Each raising our voices a bit to be louder than the other, which meant we were shouting at each other, with 30 feet between us. We most likely looked like feuding protestors. I occasionally step closer to my parents in an attempt to hear them but am careful not to cross the invisible line that marks the place far enough and too close. Then my brother and his wife show up, step out of the car, and the whole group erupts. “Bryan!” We yell at the top of our lungs. “Kellee!” We add, our voices cracking from the strain. This is feeling like one of our family zoom calls. Bryan and Kellee have their paper masks on, along with blue latex gloves. Bryan looks over at me and snaps the wrist of this glove.

“Bend over,” he says, raising his eyebrows.

“Good luck up there,” I say, tilting my ass towards him.

Bryan and Kellee brought groceries too and place them on the blankets. My parents went from one whole chicken to a Whole Foods. Bryan and Kelle join in on the screaming which is sporadically broken up by, “what?” We eventually settle down and things reach that awkward moment of silence where someone feels compelled to speak.

“We got french fries from McDonald’s. As a treat.” my mom says, with a head jiggle that seems to say nah-nah-na-nan-na.

“Got a milkshake-ah.” My dad says, adding his own flare at the end of “shake” while doing a little shimmy. They were quite proud of themselves.

“Wow, you guys never go to McDonald’s,” I say.

My parents are not fast food eaters or at least they never mentioned it to us. Not that it’s anything worthwhile to talk about. I remember as a kid my mom physically retching just hearing a jingle about the makings of a Big Mac. So, for her to tell us they went to McDonald’s was shocking.

“French fries. Chocolate shake!” Kate yells with a crazed look in her eyes.

“We need to get some.” I add, licking my lips.

“We went to Burger King too,” my mom interjects, “we used the burgerking.com app.”

“The same day?!” I ask.

“No, stinker.” My mom responds sharply.

Fast food. Apps. Isolation was having a profound effect on my parents.

“You don’t have to say dot com about an app, mom.” Bryan corrected. I shoot him a look. This was no time to discuss semantics.

“I’ve been wanting to try the impossible burger,” I say, also evidence that quarantine was changing me as well. Vegetable things that pretend to be meat things have always bothered me. Tofu Sausage. Chick’n. Carrot peels fried up like bacon are not bacon. They’re burnt carrot trash. Kate downloads the burger king app right then and there and we say our goodbyes.

We buckle in the kids and Kate opened the BK menu.

“Ok, the closest one is like 7 miles away.”Kate begins, “What do you wa-”

“Impossible burger,” I say.

“Alright. I want fries and a chocolate shake. Girls, are nuggets good? Good. Ok the GPS is not working. Just drive.” Kate says.

I slip the gear into D and hit the gas pedal. I double-tap the horn to my folks, Bryan, and Kellee. The GPS says 15 minutes. We get there in 12.

We inch up to the drive-thru. I read the instructions posted on the giant standing menu.

“Welcome to Burger King. How can I help you?” says the captured woman trapped inside the silver speaker box.

“Hi, we ordered through the app,” I say, anxiously.

“What’s your order number?”

I give her the number and she tells me to pull around to the second window. They have a very good system. I wonder if they know my mom. We grab our milkshake and root beer and then they have us park along the curb a little farther up. A woman in a mask and gloves appears with a BK bag resting on a tray.

“Here you go,” she says.

“Thank you so much!” I exclaim.

We pull into a parking spot and rip open the bag. We throw the nuggets at the kids. Kate eats. six french fries at a time and then chases them with a chocolate shake. Kate is more of a McDonald’s french fry girl so the BK fries are average at best. But the milkshake? Kate takes a powerful pull on the straw. She tilts her head back, closes her eyes, and experiences what looks like an earth-shattering orgasm. I want that feeling, stat. I reach into the bag pulling out the cardboard container with my Impossible Whopper. I crack the lid. At first glance, it’s a beautiful-looking burger. Glistening slightly in a healthy way as if it just spent the most glorious day at the beach. I pick it up and take a large bite. I wasn’t sticking my big toe in the water. I was jumping into this pool. The burger is not only satisfying, but it’s. also comforting. I don’t know what plants are in here but they might as well have been marijuana. I finish the whopper in under three minutes. I drop my shoulders and exhale through my nose. I float back to our house on a cloud. We park in front and I hop out.

“Hey Sophia, wanna take Bodhi for a walk with me? He’s been riding in the back for a while.” I ask, putting Bodhi’s leash on him.

“Sure, why not,” Sophia says.

I salute Kate and Charlotte, and Sophia and I walk toward our local park. Bodhi is zig-zagging like it’s his first time on land. We got to the park and Sophia climbs her favorite tree. Bodhi sniffs the ground. He finds a tuft of grass that particularly interests him. I feel my stomach rumble. Loud and intimidating like thunder in my belly. I clench my gut with my hand.

“Sophia, we have to go!” I yell.

Sophia is hanging upside down by one of the thick branches.

“What? We just got here.” Sophia says, annoyed.

“Seriously, let’s go now.”

I wave her toward me and walk briskly with Bodhi. I’m not leaving Sophia behind and also not going to squat in the bushes at our neighborhood park. Sophia catches up and the three of us transition into a light jog.

“What is going on, dad?” Sophia asks, slightly out of breath.

“Look, I gotta poop and it’s an emergency,” I say, sweat breaking on my forehead.

“Alright alright, we’re going,” Sophia says, reassuring me.

I clench my sphincter tighter than fresh meat in his first shower in prison. An angry mob was shoving their way in, or out in my case. I couldn’t keep this up much longer. We are about 4 blocks away from home when it happens. The enemy breaches the gate. I feel the firm head of this attack squeeze through my asshole. A warm liquid follows then quickly, and surprisingly turns cold on the back of my legs. Is that how liquid feces works? As soon as it hits the air it chills? Kind of like the phenomenon where blood appears blue in your skin but turns red when it’s outside your body. Although I read that it’s an optical illusion. Whatever the reason, I suddenly feel like I’m not wearing pants. I stop in my tracks, nearly crying. I take a deep breath. I look around the area. I spot a few people in the distance and realize I have. a huge wet shit stain on my pants. I remove my sweatshirt wrapping it around my waist. I inhale and grab Sophia in one hand and Bodhi’s leash in the other. We cross the street and double-time it home. The situation is grim but I’m not going down without a fight. I open the door and throw the leash to Sophia. I dash through the living room and go down to the sad, old bathroom that the previous owners had put in the basement.

Then the real horror show begins.

I fling open the bathroom door and scurry to the toilet, swinging the lid up with a crash. I yank my pants down, not even taking the time to unbuckle my belt. I plop down on the seat and evacuate my insides. Tremendous relief washes over me. I look down, noticing two falafel-sized turds nestled in my boxer briefs. I grab at one with a handful of toilet paper, knocking the other to the ground. I scoop up one and drop it into the toilet in between my legs. I did the same with the others. Fucking disgusting, I say to myself.

I stand to wipe and assess the damage. The back and sides of the toilet seat are smeared with my shit. It’s on the floor too. I can’t believe it to be honest. I thought most of it was either in my pants, the bowl or left for dead on one of the blocks. I step out of my pants and crumple them and my underwear together. I see there is poop along my right calf. I start looking around my body for more shrapnel. I feel filthy. I take off my shirt and sweatshirt and add them to the pile. I wipe the poop off my calf with my pant leg. Now I’m naked. I need to clean the toilet seat and the rest of the shit stains. I have to get these soiled clothes into the wash. I gather them up and goose-step my way to the laundry room. I thought there would be pants and a shirt for me in the dryer but no luck. I find a blue, black, and white blanket and wrap it around myself from my chest down. I throw the clothes in the wash. I dump in a cap full of detergent and put the setting to “heavy,” which I think is the closest to “shit yourself.” I go back to the bathroom. The smell makes me gag. My own brand is intolerable. I have no disinfecting wipes or cleaning products to tackle this mess. I yell up to Sophia from the bottom of the stairs. She comes halfway down.

“I need wipes!” I say, hiding by the side of the steps.

“What are you wearing?” She says, eyeing me up.

“A blanket. It’s a Mexican blanket.”

“What makes it Mexican?”

“I don’t know. That’s just what they call it.”

“Is it made by Mexicans?”

“Who cares about the blanket. Go get the wipes from the bathroom windowsill.”

Sophia runs up the steps. I listen as she stomps her way to the bathroom and back downstairs. She hands me a small rectangular package of cucumber-scented face wipes.

“These wipes are no good,” I say, shaking them at her. “I need the Clorox wipes. There is a container on the windowsill.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why are you wearing that Mexican blanket?” She asks.

“Forget it. I’ll get them myself.” I say, hoisting up the blanket so I don’t trip.

I get my clothes from the bedroom, being careful not to wake up Kate who’s napping. Being awoken by your panicked husband wearing only a blanket seems like a fever dream. I get the wipes from the windowsill of the good bathroom. Back in the basement, I use a roll of toilet paper to wipe away the poop and then follow that up with bleach wipes. I light a candle and throw the blanket in the wash with the rest of my clothes, stopping the cycle for a moment. I turn on the bathroom vent. I open the basement window. The whole area is contaminated, smelling like a neglected restroom in Penn Station.

I go back upstairs with a shower on my mind. Sophia is in the living room watching a show about a boy who is rich. Or was it that his parents are rich? I suppose he could be an investment prodigy who made his own wealth. Good for him.

“Seriously. Did you poop your pants?” Sophia asks, knowing the truth.

“It was touch and go, but I’m fine,” I say, lying. And she knows it.

She tilts her head to the side and gives me an empathetic grin. I smile. Sophia pooped herself many times when she was just out of diapers. We had been in the trenches together. Now, sadly, it was my turn to feel that humbling embarrassment of my body betraying me. We turn our attention back to the TV. The rich boy and his friends are in his bedroom filled with extravagant items including a bed frame shaped like a race car.

“This show is absurd,” I blurt, “How could a kid have all this money? It’s impossible.”

“Dad,” Sophia says, still looking at the TV, “Anything’s possible.”