Oh, and she raises her hand again...

So I am going to proceed to fire out another post, pretending to not be wholly self-conscious about this almost 9:1 ratio. I’m starting to feel like ‘that kid’ in your psychology class who won’t freaking shut up, and has to proceed to comment at any given chance, in addition to sharing awkward personal stories about his aunt Irene. That same kid, who everyone secretly wants (by some act of God) to suddenly go mute…only he doesn’t know it.

Quite possibly one of my favorite passages thus far. In the post tennis drills locker room rag session, Wallace is carefully drafting out each of his characters. T. Schacht is the walking med case who spends significant time in the bathroom due to his Crohn’s disease. Hal makes this priceless observation.

Pg. 103

“Something humble, placid even, about inert feet under stall doors. The defecatory posture is an accepting posture, it occurs to him. Head down, elbows on knees, the fingers laced together between the knees. Some hunched timeless millennial type of waiting, almost religious. Luther’s shoes on the floor beneath the chamber pot, placid, possibly made of wood, Luther’s 16th century shoes, awaiting epiphany. The mute quiescent suffering of generations of salesmen in the stalls of train-station johns, heads down, fingers laced, shined shoes inert, awaiting the acid gush. Women’s slippers, centurions’ dusty sandals, dockworkers hobnailed boots, Pope’s slippers. All waiting, pointing straight ahead, slightly tapping. Huge shaggy-browed men in skins hunched just pasted the firelight’s circle with wadded leaves in one hand waiting.”

Defecation is the great equalizer among men. No one is above the basic necessity of bowel movements. After having worked in a hospital longer than is needed to permanently warp/damage my sense of humor, I’ve heard plenty of euphemisms (my particular favorite: crack spackle) and incredible stories to supply any conversation gone south.

Aside from all the things that differentiate people, money, materials, education, or appearance – everybody poops. (Somehow someone coined this for a book title and made enough money to retire…had I only though of this sooner, I would be taking credit for the immature giggles in bookstores nationwide.) Not only that, but it’s the same stuff for all of us, rotting half digested foodstuffs we ate only hours prior. Whether we acknowledge it or not, everyone is just a complex version of an open tube, one end your mouth, one end your anus.

The point though is the feet. Hal says that the position is the same, since the beginning of time…placid and accepting, feet pointing ahead. It seems a humble gesture of man submitting to the will of nature. Perhaps it is a natural state of epiphany, every man’s sanctuary; a place one can truly validate being alone – and frequently. A ceremonious return to the same humble position.

Perhaps that is why conversations that take place in public restrooms are so disturbing. Like dying, defecating is a deeply personal act. It is a man’s own business with Mother Nature. None should be interrupted to chat about, “what’s next on the agenda” or “your last phone conversation with person X.” There are certain unspoken rules in society – provoked upon us by instinct. You don’t talk when you squat.

Religious reformists or teenage-angsty-pot-smoking tennis players alike, crap happens. It is a simple pattern, and reminder that we are all simply human, regardless of successes or walloping failures. On next occasion while choosing between reading materials (sports section or Infinite Jest) or obnoxiously unraveling the toilet paper dispenser, remember that if nothing else, at least we all have this in common.