Chapter Two - The Outhouse

Jefferson didn’t go outdoors until Mother insisted they have a wiener roast. “Jeff, please go and chop some wood and kindling. There is an axe by the woodpile.”

Jefferson shuffled out to the stack of wood, grabbed the axe. He missed the stick of wood, half the time, and it got stuck in the chopping block. It didn’t take long before Jefferson was panting loudly, and his arms became so stiff and sore, the video game player could hardly lift the axe. Eventually, Jefferson completed the chore.

Somehow, the hotdogs tasted better than the heated wieners he usually had at home, especially the ones he had cooked himself when Mom wasn’t around.

As he was eating his hotdog with all the condiments Mom had brought from home, Jefferson noticed a small outhouse set off in the trees. It might be the perfect place to play video games. Mother would never go there as there was a decent bathroom in the cabin. The outhouse entrance faced the lake and away from their vacation home.

After they had cleaned up and put out the campfire, Jefferson went to check out the outhouse. He had to fight his way through cobwebs, but the smell wasn’t too bad. Due to latrine’s lack of recent use, the odor was musty but bearable. Jefferson figured leaving the door open would provide more light and aerate the space a bit more. The door had a hook latch, so he could close the door if Mother happened to pass. It would be the perfect gaming place.

The next morning Jefferson got up relatively early. Mother was still in bed sleeping. He left a note on the table. “Going for a hike. Back by noon.” He didn’t think he was lying. It was a hike, only not a long one, measured in metres, not kilometres.

He placed his cell phone and battery pack in his pants pocket and began his “hike.” The outhouse was a two-holer, which Jefferson thought could be a problem. He sat on the space between the holes, leaving the gaping holes, one on either side, in which he could accidentally drop a cell phone or battery pack. Jefferson took some precautions by leaning forward so the cell phone would fall on the floor if he should drop it and placed the battery pack on the floor ahead of him.

Jefferson had received his first cell phone on his fourteenth birthday. Occasionally, he used social functions like Facebook, Twitter, Snapchat, or texting, mainly to set up a game with friends. The cell phone was primarily his vehicle for gaming. Initially, the games came free with the telephone. At first, he didn’t mind playing Solitaire, Hearts, Chess, Scrabble, and Mine Sweeper. Now he considered these games beneath him, games for beginners or the elderly. He began purchasing games, and soon it consumed his entire income: allowances, grandmother’s Christmas, and birthday gifts. As he spent all his money on games, he resorted to handmade cards for his mother’s birthday and Christmas gifts. On them, Jefferson would offer to do certain chores for a week. Usually, he could only focus on doing them for two or three days.

What's more, Jefferson’s art skills hadn’t progressed. His cards resembled the ones he made for his mother in grades three or four. Mother felt Jefferson was constantly recycling his elementary school cards, offering the same sentiments, drawings, and help with chores.

Jefferson was surprised at the excellent cell phone coverage he had in the outhouse. It didn’t take him long to join an online game battling his old nemeses, Warlord and Macho Joe. Jefferson engaged his opponents for hours in the outhouse, forgetting the time. It wasn’t until 12:30 pm before he realized Mother would be waiting with lunch. Jefferson hurriedly excused himself from the game, left the cell phone and battery pack in the outhouse, and ran the short distance to the cabin. Out of breath, he entered the door where Mother had set out lunch with sandwiches and a salad.

“It’s good to see you’re getting some exercise,” Mother remarked as he entered. “Did you have a good hike?”

“Yeah, it was great,” came the reply.

“Where did you go?”

“Oh, I followed the lakeshore for a bit. There was a good view.”

“You smell funny, a musty smell. Go wash yourself up and come for lunch.”

“It’s all the great, fresh outdoor air we have around here,” Jefferson quipped as he went to clean up.

When Jefferson returned to the table, Mother wanted him to tell of his hike. “So, what did you see?” she asked.

Jefferson remembered the Arrogant Worms song, “Rocks and Trees,” which he and his mother sang when he was a young boy. “Rocks and trees and trees and rocks.” Then he added, “Mostly trees and lake.”

Mother smiled at the fond memories of a happier time Jefferson had awakened within her. “What are you going to do this afternoon?” she inquired.

“I thought I’d go on another hike,” he said. “What are you going to do?”

“I thought I’d read a book on the bench by the lake,” she stated. “I want to read Trevor Noah’s book, Born a Crime. It’s an autobiography of his time as a young boy in South Africa. I’ve meant to read it for a while.”

Jefferson knew he had to move quickly enough to beat Mom outside, so he could arrive at the latrine before she discovered his destination. He hastily ate and excused himself from the table and ran to the outhouse.

The bench was visible from his hideaway. He watched his Mother sit down with her book before he resumed his gaming.

He must have been gaming for an hour before realizing the sky had darkened. He looked to see if his mother was still reading on the bench, but it appeared Mother had returned to the cabin. The birds stopped singing creating a foreboding silence. Jefferson sensed a chill in the air. Suddenly he noticed a water spout over the lake. He had never seen one before and was intrigued by the twister’s ability to lift water into the air. The water spout was getting closer. Jefferson was mesmerized. As it came closer, he could see objects twisting in the spout, a fishing boat, and parts of what appeared to be a dock. Then it slammed ashore, sucking the bench up into the air to join the other debris.

The bench’s demise filled Jefferson with fear. His heartbeat pounded against his chest. It was too late to run for the cabin. He reached out, grabbed the outhouse door, and latched it shut. “What a puny latch,” he moaned. “I’m doomed.”

The wind shook the outhouse and wrenched it off its base and into the air. Jefferson became unsteady on his feet as the small building shook and turned in the wind. Through the toilet holes, he could see the tops of the trees below him, twisting and turning to shake off the wind. The air pressure pulled him toward the openings. He had to get down to the floor, and as he kneeled, he felt the cell phone and the battery pack being torn from his hands and down the hole to the trees below. Jefferson curled up into a fetal position on the floor, as the space was too small to stretch out. He placed his arms above and below his head for protection. Jefferson wondered if his Mother was safe in the cabin or whether she too was drawn up into what must be a tornado since it was now over land. The outhouse began spinning ever faster. Jefferson was getting dizzier and finally passed out. The privy finally landed with a thud and rocked before it steadied itself in an upright position.

It took a while for Jefferson to regain consciousness. His ribs were sore from the landing. He groaned as he tried to sit up. Outside he heard voices.

“Sounds like we have a live one here,” said one voice.

Another deeper voice said, “He sure sounds like he is working hard in there.”

“Won’t he be surprised!” came another voice. Jefferson heard a series of grunts as the outhouse began rocking and eventually tipped over onto its door.

Jefferson’s cry, “Wait, there is a person in here,” was met with boisterous laughter. The voices soon disappeared. Jefferson tried to stand up but returned quickly to his knees when he banged his head on the two by four studs of the back wall above him.

He sat down on the door, trying to figure out how to get out of his predicament. The door wasn’t a possibility for an exit. He thought of trying to crawl through the holes, but it was dark outside, and the smell was much stronger than at the lake. He wasn’t sure what was at the other end.

In the distance, Jefferson heard voices coming nearer. He wanted to call out for help but thought better of it. These could be the same people who put him in this position, sitting trapped inside an overturned outhouse.

“Hey, there is another one.” He could hear a loud voice could over the laughter and other noisy conversations.

“This is the third one tonight,” another voice chimed in.

“Well, by now, you know the procedure.” The voices now surrounded the outhouse.

Jefferson didn’t know what to do. He curled up into a ball.

“One, Two, Three.” The count was followed by grunts and groans, as Jefferson felt the outhouse rise. “This one seems to be heavier than the others,” said one. Suddenly, the latch on the door gave way, and Jefferson fell out at the feet of a group of boys!

“Ahhh!” screamed several of the boys as Jefferson rolled into their legs. They let go of their grip of the outhouse roof and left one boy holding the outhouse steady, keeping it from falling on the new arrival.

“Come on, you guys, lift,’ said the one holding the outhouse up. “We can’t let this outhouse fall on the guy’s head.” The boys regained their composure and helped lift the latrine to its upright position, careful not to step on the boy sprawled out in front of them. The privy landed upright with a thud.

Jefferson got to his feet. “Thanks,” he said. Stating the obvious, he continued, “I was trapped inside.”

“At least you weren’t caught with your pants down,” laughed one, who was soon joined by the others.

“Hi, my name is Henry,” said one skinny boy. “What’s yours?”

“Jefferson,” came the reply.

“It’s one highfalutin name for a person who dropped out of an outhouse,” said the chubby one. “The name has three syllables. In these parts, only Henry can have a name with three syllables, because he is the leader.”

“Henry is only two syllables.” Jefferson looked confused.

The chubby one continued. “Well, at home, his parents call him Henry. In these parts, he’s Fiedelbaum. “‘Fiedel’ means fiddle in German, and ‘baum’ means tree. He plays the fiddle, but if you look at the skinny guy, I’d say he’s more of a stick than a tree. A more appropriate name would be Fiddlesticks.”

Fiedelbaum said, “You’re talking to Two-Ton, the guy who saved you from being a mashed potato under the outhouse. He was christened Norman by his parents. So, what kind of nickname do we give Jefferson? We can’t be talking to the third president of the United States all the time. He needs a humbler name. What do you think, Honey?” Then turning to Jefferson, he said, “Honey spells his name, E.L.D.R.E.D.”

Jefferson was confused. He felt cold. It was dark, and there was nothing familiar about his surroundings. What happened? Where were the lake and his uncle’s cabin? Who were these boys felled with gibberish and dressed in clothes too old-fashioned to be worn in your backyard where nobody would see them?

“Well, we could call him ‘King’ because he came out of the throne room,” Honey offered. “But we need to take him down a notch. We could call him ‘Kinglet.’

Jefferson looked at Honey with a blank stare.

“What do you think, Horse?” Fiedelbaum continued.  Turning to Jefferson, he said, “The girls call him Glen. Why? I don’t know.”

Horse thought a second. “Why don’t we call him Grand Poopa?”

Jefferson felt like he was being auctioned off. No money, just bids of pottymouth names.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit harsh?” Fiedelbaum replied.

 “Well, he fell out of an outhouse,” Horse countered. Everyone laughed.

“Why is Poopa such a harsh name?” Honey wanted to know. “You call me ‘Honey’ all the time.”

“Well,” Fiedelbaum teased, “‘Honey’ is a term of endearment, and refers to the nectar of the gods.”

“Yeah, I know,” Honey pointed out. “It’s what you say, but half of you think of ‘Honey’ pail.” The boys’ laughter filled the backyard.

“No, no, no,” Fiedelbaum smirked. “We think only the best. But I would like to suggest a slightly different name for Jefferson. Let’s call him, after the character in Gilbert and Sullivan’s operetta, The Mikado, the ‘Grand Poobah.’ And because it is three syllables, we have to shorten it to ‘Poobah.’ ”

Nobody had heard of the operetta, but the name had “poo” in it, so everyone approved.

“So, do you like your new name?” asked Two-Ton.

“No,” Poobah answered.

“Tough,” Two-Ton retorted, “I don’t like mine either. If it is any consolation, you can name the one guy who doesn’t have a nickname yet. Clifford.”

Poobah somehow felt honored he got to apply a nickname. “Well,” Poobah suggested, “when I was a young boy, my mother would read me a bedtime story of a red dog named Clifford.”

“Then it is settled,” Two-Ton said. “Clifford, we now christen you ‘Red Dawg.’ It even fits, cause you’re a redhead.”

Fiedelbaum then introduced the rest of the group: Harvey, whose nickname was “Hard-Times,” Allen, who went by the name of ‘Wrench,’ and Eugene, who given the handle of ‘Bottle’ as in genie in a bottle.

“What kind of group are you?” Poobah asked. It seemed strange that a group of boys was nearby to rescue him from the darkness of the outhouse. “Are you a baseball team or something?”

 Red Dawg stepped forward, “No way. None of us are good at sports, except Honey. We are the Morons’ Club.” He stuck out his chest at the mention of the group name.

“I guess I must thank a group of morons for coming to my aid,” Poobah smiled.