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Stool Fool

Douglas J. Ogurek

    My crap looked like an A one night. I showed my wife. She said, “Weird. I’ve made lots of Is, Js, and Cs. But an A? That’s unique.”
    “We should take a picture,” I said. “Call the paper. I can see the headline: ‘Honorable Discharge.’”
    We laughed. Thought nothing more of it. Until the next night: I got a B.
    “You’ve heard of alphabet soup?” she said. “Well this is alphabet poop!” We laughed.
    I said, “My GPA has dropped.”
    “GPA?”
    “Grade Poop Average.”
    “No matter what grade you get, it’s always going to be crappy.”
    “And no matter what grade I get, I’m expelled.” We laughed.
    We chalked up the A and the B to a fluke. Shit happens, right? But if I had known those letters were the beginning of what would plunge our relationship into the toilet in less than two weeks, I never would have shown them to her.

***

    The next day, we went out for dinner.
    I said, “I dropped off a letter today.”
    “To whom?”
     “To me, I guess.”
     “You wrote yourself a letter?”
    “No, no. I dropped a letter in the toilet.”
     “Ha ha.” She rolled her eyes. “What letter?”
    “Oh, maybe you don’t care.”
    “No no. What letter is it?”
    I said, “It sounds like you don’t really want to know.”
    “Please. Just tell me.”
    “Guess.”
    “Don’t tell me it’s a C.”
    “No.”
    “Well, what?”
    “What do you think?”
    “Jerry, just tell me.”
    “Fine. It’s an S. A-B-S. I think this could mean something. Maybe it’s spelling out a longer word. Like ‘absent’ or ‘abscond’ or ‘absolute.’ Maybe even ‘abstemiousness’ or ‘abstruse.’”
    “How about ‘absurd?’ I think your A-B-S theory is just BS.”
    “How do you know?” I said. “You with your occasional Is and Js and Cs?”
    “All of a sudden the toilet’s some kind of crystal ball?” she said. “Jerry and his crystal bowl. All signs point toward a shitty future.”
    The next day, I thought more about what ABS might mean. Was it an acronym? Anti-lock brake system? Stop? Stop doing something? A-B-S. Was it talking about abdominal muscles? Somebody’s initials? Or maybe some complex code, some message that would change my life.

***

    When I received a T the next night, I elected to refrain from telling my wife. A-B-S-T. BATS? STAB? Abstruse?

***

    The following evening, I peered into the receptacle. What I saw resembled a massive boulder beginning its descent down the left side of a mountain peak. This time, I decided to show my wife. “Last night, I made a T, but I’m not so sure about this one.”
    “I guess that’s it,” she said. “Sorry. A-B-S-T. Looks like an end to your streak, besides the one at the bottom of the bowl.”
    After she walked away, I looked in the mirror, and what I saw in the bowl was no longer a massive boulder commencing its descent. Instead, I observed the next stage of the masterwork I was gradually unveiling, for the mirror revealed an R.
    “It’s not an R,” she said. “You’re making a mountain out of a dunghill.”
    “I think that you’re envious because you were incapable of interpreting the next piece of the puzzle.”
    “You’re right. Let’s see . . . A-B-S-T-R. Perhaps we should rearrange the letters. BRATS maybe? Or STAR then a word that starts with B. What do you think?”
    STAB R is what came to mind. “Oh, I have begun to catalog my thoughts. However, my preference is to patiently await the next component.”
    “Let’s hear your thoughts now. Maybe we can figure it out together . . . make a game of it!”
    “This is not a game,” I said.
    “Oh, right. This is some serious shit. Let’s tell some of our friends about it. Maybe ask my mom. Perhaps we can start a spiritual movement . . . travel around the world preaching the good news according to your butt.”
    “Our friends are far too sophomoric to even conceive of something this profound. And your mother?” I chuckled. “She got squeamish when we revealed that the mushrooms she was eating were shitake.”
    “Oh, right. This is a special message just for the two of us.”
    “We are the elite,” I said. “Presently, the only ones capable of grasping its meanings. Our unequivocal calling is to interpret these works and share their philosophical implications among the elite.”
    “Works? So you’re an artist now?” She looked at the backwards R. “I hate to say it, Jerry, but your work stinks.”
    “Don’t fall prey to the idiot machine.”
    “I’m tired of your shit.”
    “Please try to understand . . . understand that there is something beneath what is floating on the surface . . . some profound truth. Perhaps this whole experience is challenging us to reach into the infinite.”
    “Into the infinite? Come on! The only thing about it that’s infinite is its stench.”
    “Well, I’m beginning to think that your stupidity is also infinite.”

***

    During the succeeding three days, the chasm that parted our aesthetic sensibilities widened significantly. However, I had also emitted and, through an acute awareness of geometrical variations and a knowledge of the distortion and violence apparent in varying shades, interpreted three more letters. The first consisted of one elongated line, which could have been interpreted as an I. Instead, I determined that it was actually a one, which inevitably led me to the first letter of the alphabet.
    The next expulsion was so profuse that it smothered the surface like algae. After photographing the work and hanging it in my study, I contemplated it for two hours. I was struggling to unveil, struggling to see. See. That was it. Clearly, the next letter I was seeking was a C.
    A murky contortion of splotches and fragments submerged in strident browns and smears of raw black formed the next letter. I spent the remainder of that night studying the implications of this furious conglomeration, and finally, I discovered that it was not so much about what was there, but more about what was not there. I had my word: “abstract.”
    I was studying my latest creation when she interrupted me by jiggling the doorknob. “Jerry, what are you doing in there? Why is this locked?”
    “Please, love. I’ll be out in a minute. Patience is a tree with bitter roots, but sweet fruits. I’m merely–”
    “Patience is the virtue of asses.”
    “I’m merely enjoying the latest of my works.”
    “What letter is it this time?”
    I flushed.

***

    The next night, I went beyond the finite; the work I produced transcended time. She pounded on the door. “Come on! You’ve been in there two hours!”
    I took a sip of my cocktail, then allowed her to enter. “My sincerest apologies.”
    “There’s no letter in there. It’s just a bunch of slop.”
    “You need to spend at least two hours with this piece. Then you will unveil its meaning.”
    “You want me to stare at your shit for two hours?”
    “You’re thinking too mainstream,” I said. “You’re only looking at what’s on the surface. Try looking beyond that. Don’t you see? This is not about a specific thing that is painted there. It’s about a mood that it evokes.”
    “What? You’re nuts.”
    “This is an emotional conquest. This is art . . . art that is to be enjoyed solely by me. It is not meant for any market; it is meant for me. I am elite.”
    “You’re nuts. That’s not art. That’s a pile of crap.”
    “You’re a fool,” I said. “Does everything have to be dumbed down for you? It is art because I say that it is art! I am the emissary in darkness. Why don’t you join the rest of the idiotic masses with your immediacy?”

***

    I thought I knew, but now I am miserable. She has gone, and I am alone. Every day, I look into the toilet and strive to unscramble what occurred. One thought dominates: abstract art is shit, and shit is abstract art.

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