The war started with a neglected bathroom maintenance issue, and it ended with a bag of doodie.
It was early spring my sophomore year of college. The population of lacrosse players in the room down the hall had been steadily growing. It started with three, and then an unsanctioned teammate-roommate was adopted, and then another, and another. Before we knew it, the third floor of Forrester Hall was infested. We’d see them coming and going all hours of the day and night. Some we knew, some we didn’t. I pictured them all sleeping in the tiny attic room – curled up on the carpet among stinky socks and equipment, sprawled on the couch, doubled up in beds, folded up in chairs. Comfort was not important. What was important was that the team was together. The room oozed with jock-boy camaraderie.
And the situation was ripe for groupthink. So when a toilet in our men’s room overflowed – and Maintenance turned a blind eye to the hovel’s plight – the lacrosse players were pissed – literally. They organized as only testosterone-stoked minds can. In the opening attack, a team leader urinated elaborately on the men’s room floor. That, they reasoned, would teach the maintenance crew not to ignore Forrester 3.
But it didn’t work. The potty problems persisted, and a few days later the next puddle was delivered ceremoniously on the hall carpet outside the bathroom. Shockingly, appalling, though, there was still no action from Maintenance. The team regrouped and settled on a play that surely would teach their opponents a lesson: in one long, collaborative pee trail, they would take their protest all the way to the end of the hall. Now they had a challenge – a mission. They had orchestrated their play. They were driving for the goal.
The weather was warming, and outside Forrester Hall spring was in the air. Inside, though, the air smelled of urine-soaked carpet and ammonia. As the days passed, the urine trail stretched farther and farther down the corridor. Any time day or night, it was not uncommon to see a lacrosse player in the hall, feet slightly apart, a hand down in front, neck bent, eyes on the target. The piddly protest made steady progress past one dorm room and the next; a darkened trail marked their headway.
One afternoon, I heard the steady roll of a urine stream hitting the floor right outside my bedroom door. I opened it to see who was there.
“Hey Ben!” the payer said, raising his non-aiming hand in a friendly wave.
“Hey.”
If the lacrosse players had made it all the way to the end of the hall, there’s no telling where they would have delivered their protest next. Down the stairs? Onto the girls’ side? Fortunately, they never got that chance. The day the war ended, I saw a plastic grocery bag hanging on the lacrosse room doorknob. Walking down the stairs, I passed a player on his way up. A minute later, an agonized roar echoed from the third floor down the hall and through the stairwell. After that, the peeing stopped.
Later that spring I had a class with one of the lacrosse players, a jovial chap named David. The guy I had passed that day, he explained, had been feeling down because his boosters had been neglecting him. So when he got to his room and found a bag hanging on the door, he thought finally maybe someone had remembered him and left him a gift. The way I picture it, this young man excitedly snatches the grocery bag off the door. A giant, hopeful grin on his face, he separates the plastic handles and peers inside. What he finds, though, is no gift. As he realizes he’s gazing into a bag of human feces, he cries out, desperate and primal.
The attack was both masterful and horrifying, David explained. It was the Hiroshima of the piss wars. The team had a pretty good thing going, but the moment they discovered the bag on the door, they knew they’d been beat at their own game. If their phantom foe could wreak such devastation with just his opening salvo, there was no telling where he would strike next. There was an impromptu team meeting. Against this new opponent, they agreed, they were no match. Awed and dismayed, they zipped up their protest and went home. The war had ended.
Names were changed to protect the obscene.
It was early spring my sophomore year of college. The population of lacrosse players in the room down the hall had been steadily growing. It started with three, and then an unsanctioned teammate-roommate was adopted, and then another, and another. Before we knew it, the third floor of Forrester Hall was infested. We’d see them coming and going all hours of the day and night. Some we knew, some we didn’t. I pictured them all sleeping in the tiny attic room – curled up on the carpet among stinky socks and equipment, sprawled on the couch, doubled up in beds, folded up in chairs. Comfort was not important. What was important was that the team was together. The room oozed with jock-boy camaraderie.
And the situation was ripe for groupthink. So when a toilet in our men’s room overflowed – and Maintenance turned a blind eye to the hovel’s plight – the lacrosse players were pissed – literally. They organized as only testosterone-stoked minds can. In the opening attack, a team leader urinated elaborately on the men’s room floor. That, they reasoned, would teach the maintenance crew not to ignore Forrester 3.
But it didn’t work. The potty problems persisted, and a few days later the next puddle was delivered ceremoniously on the hall carpet outside the bathroom. Shockingly, appalling, though, there was still no action from Maintenance. The team regrouped and settled on a play that surely would teach their opponents a lesson: in one long, collaborative pee trail, they would take their protest all the way to the end of the hall. Now they had a challenge – a mission. They had orchestrated their play. They were driving for the goal.
The weather was warming, and outside Forrester Hall spring was in the air. Inside, though, the air smelled of urine-soaked carpet and ammonia. As the days passed, the urine trail stretched farther and farther down the corridor. Any time day or night, it was not uncommon to see a lacrosse player in the hall, feet slightly apart, a hand down in front, neck bent, eyes on the target. The piddly protest made steady progress past one dorm room and the next; a darkened trail marked their headway.
One afternoon, I heard the steady roll of a urine stream hitting the floor right outside my bedroom door. I opened it to see who was there.
“Hey Ben!” the payer said, raising his non-aiming hand in a friendly wave.
“Hey.”
If the lacrosse players had made it all the way to the end of the hall, there’s no telling where they would have delivered their protest next. Down the stairs? Onto the girls’ side? Fortunately, they never got that chance. The day the war ended, I saw a plastic grocery bag hanging on the lacrosse room doorknob. Walking down the stairs, I passed a player on his way up. A minute later, an agonized roar echoed from the third floor down the hall and through the stairwell. After that, the peeing stopped.
Later that spring I had a class with one of the lacrosse players, a jovial chap named David. The guy I had passed that day, he explained, had been feeling down because his boosters had been neglecting him. So when he got to his room and found a bag hanging on the door, he thought finally maybe someone had remembered him and left him a gift. The way I picture it, this young man excitedly snatches the grocery bag off the door. A giant, hopeful grin on his face, he separates the plastic handles and peers inside. What he finds, though, is no gift. As he realizes he’s gazing into a bag of human feces, he cries out, desperate and primal.
The attack was both masterful and horrifying, David explained. It was the Hiroshima of the piss wars. The team had a pretty good thing going, but the moment they discovered the bag on the door, they knew they’d been beat at their own game. If their phantom foe could wreak such devastation with just his opening salvo, there was no telling where he would strike next. There was an impromptu team meeting. Against this new opponent, they agreed, they were no match. Awed and dismayed, they zipped up their protest and went home. The war had ended.
Names were changed to protect the obscene.
Header art by T. Guzzio. Original photo by Rich Barnes.
CONNECT WITH BEN:
Ben Adelman is an English teacher, musician, and former newspaper editor who lives in a small, wooded town north of Boston. He reads DeLillo and DFW and loves folk music and Led Zeppelin. Email him at [email protected].
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