When The Boy child was in high school, we arm twisted him into trying out for cross-country. Practice was rough going, and every day when I picked him up he would hobble to the car. A month later the weekly meets started, which are bright and early on Saturday mornings. The Big Daddy and I had to get up and at ’em to make it on time and that meant coffee. Lots of coffee.
I was at one such meet when all that java started taking effect and I needed to use the port-a-potty. No sooner had I gotten there when a group of runners had the same idea, and I let them use it ahead of me so they wouldn’t miss their start. Just as it was my turn, a truck pulled up and an older guy got out and said, “Folks, gotta clean her up so you’ll have to hold it for a few minutes.” By then there was about a dozen of us waiting, and we watched him unwind a huge hose from the side of his truck that he stuck down the hole of the port-a-potty to suck the waste out and into a tank on the truck. He wiped things down with a rag and a spray bottle, swept the floor, restocked the toilet paper, and hung an air freshener. All the while, he never stopped whistling. When he was done, he waved his arm toward the door, did a little bow and said, “Ladies and gents, I give you a clean Johnny.”
We all stood there dumb-founded until the guy behind me broke the silence and said, “I’m never going to complain about my job again.”
Truer words never spoken.
