…I can’t help but think of this story a close friend of mine once told me. Terrible, wonderful story. Most embarrassing story I may have ever heard, as well as one of the strongest arguments for always packing in a bag small enough to fit in an overhead compartment.

We’ll call him “Carl”, but obviously the name is changed.

Carl is a great guy, very smart, very driven. He’s one of those guys who bikes 100 miles at a time and then hits the bars later that night. Right now he’s the de facto head of the IT department for a major museum, but once upon a time he was working for a nutrition company based in Oslo, and at some point he was required to fly out to the home office for some kind of company jamboree.

Carl had to fly out of Newark Airport, a huge hassle to begin with since he was coming in from the middle of Connecticut. It took him a while to get there, and it was going to be a long flight to Norway, so he was quite hungry and not looking forward to his next meal being from a plane. He realized that food from Newark Airport wouldn’t be a hell of a lot better, so he decided that the safest option was with a personal pie from Pizza Hut. He scarfed it down and set off to his gate.

Now, it’s necessary to point out at this time that Carl, being the athletic sort, has a pretty speedy metabolism. So, when his stomach started acting funny just as he was boarding the plane, he knew pretty definitely what was the cause. The Pizza Hut was already coming back on him. It was only a slight quiver at this point, so he stuck his luggage in the overhead compartment, took his seat in coach, next to a pleasant, slightly mature blonde, and pulled out a book.

The plane rolled out onto the tarmac and the fasten seat belts sign lit up, but Carl’s stomachache grew with every minute. Nature’s own calling increased from a faint whisper to a demanding whine, and he decided he had to buck the system; he unbuckled, rose, and headed down the aisle to the coach bathrooms. Unfortunately the flight attendant intercepted him and insisted that, as they were about to take off, he must return to his seat, no arguments. Clenching his guts, Carl reluctantly complied.

The g-forces of take off drove his digestive tract into a frenzy; whatever contaminant in the pizza was a sonofabitch, and Carl could barely hold his mettle as they rose in the sky.

Finally attaining cruising altitude, the pilot switched off the seat belt sign and our poor hero bolted from his seat for the lavatory, only to discover that others, like-minded and closer in row, had beaten him to them. However, the urge in his alimentary canal had arrived at the moment of truth, and there was only one option left—defy convention and take the First Class toilet by storm.

Just as he pushed past the curtain and raced past the stuffed shirts in their reclining seats, a First Class passenger was also approaching the commode. She was not quick enough, and Carl had to push her out of the way, deftly darting inside while the nearby attendant demanded that he wasn’t allowed to use those facilities and that he’d have to return to coach. Her words fell ignored upon the bathroom door as Carl locked it fast behind him.

Alas! The serpent in the garden has a forked tongue, and likewise, so did the matter of his urgency have a divided purpose. Indeed, two completely separate urges fell upon him in the same moment and he hadn’t a moment to lose; what he did have to lose, however, was both the contents of his stomach and the contents of his bowels, both of them with violent immediacy.

Carl fumbled with his pants and aimed his mouth at the tiny sink in one single, desperate motion, but despite his finest efforts, tragedy struck! The graceful shallow curve of the sink was no match for the heaving force of his oral projectile; it hit the side of the sink like a jai alai xistera, was driven back out to paint the wall and mirror beyond.

Far worse, however, was the sudden bursting force he would release to his horror; a heavy stream of unimaginable filth, gushing into his barely-shedded shorts, into his pants, even into his socks, and all over the floor. Seemingly endless founts, uncontrollable, and terrible, despite the relief they granted. All the while, as the flight attendant pounded upon the tiny bathroom’s door, demanding entrance.

Carl tells this part of the story with a wonderful visual aid: he hops up upon a chair to demonstrate how he had then removed his shorts, pants, and socks…shoes set to one side while he used every paper towel available to clean not only himself but also the lavvy from on top of the commode, avoiding the mess on the floor. Shorts and socks found their way into the trash.

He then washed his pants in the tiny sink, drenching them completely and scrubbing them with the pathetic liquid hand soap. He wrung them out with the best of his ability, and suffered their dampness in favor of shirtcocking it back down the aisle.

Having done everything humanly possible to this point, Carl finally unlocked the door and stared down the furious flight attendant waiting him on the other side. He raised his chin, knowing well in his heart that he only did what he had to do, turned on his sopping heel, and squished his way back into coach to the apoplectic gapes of the first class passengers who had heard all and been helpless, a truly captive audience.

Carl made his way directly to his single bag, stuffed in the overhead compartment, his reek filling the cabin. He removed his luggage and continued down to the rear bathrooms, now vacant. Therein, after a final stab at cleansing his skin, he quickly changed into new shorts, socks, and pants and exited the toilet; a new man, with his wet pants tied up in a plastic bag and stuffed back into his carry-on.

After returning at last to his seat, the memory of his ordeal and the lasting impression so indelible upon those who bore witness in sound and scent so fresh in mind, he stared at the seatback in front of him in disbelief. And the first thing to break the trance was his neighbor, the pleasant, slightly mature blonde…offering him a breath mint.