To say Saturday morning hasn’t gone according to plan is an understatement. It is supposed to be a summer morning spent at the Street Bazaar where I intend to pursue several objectives: volunteering as a science educator for the Zoo, enjoying the chill, hippie farmers market vibe and making next friends as I work to establish an identity for myself outside of provider, father and husband.

I greet Serena, whom I’d met a few weeks prior. She introduces me to Betty Ray and Duane, who’ve been zoo volunteers for over a decade. Following introductions, we work together to set up our canvas canopy and our table. As we are placing our exhibits and pamphlets on the table, Jerry shows up. I really seem to click with Jerry and Duane. Betty Ray is very nice, but aloof.

The market opens and we take turns making our rounds. Betty Ray and Serena get coffee. I consider the cold brew mocha, but it’s loaded with sugar and I am already highly caffeinated and pissing every 20 minutes, so I decide to abstain. I choose to fill my cooler with some fantastic as well as unique produce. I’ve never sen a gooseberry, so I end up buying a pint from an Amish family. They’re great in pies, despite or perhaps because of their tartness, at least according to Amish tastebuds.

I take my haul of organic groceries back to my car and return to my seat back at our booth. Because there are five of us, there isn’t enough room for all of us to sit comfortably inside the tent. I choose to sit just outside the tent under the shade of an old oak tree so that there is plenty of room for the others. There is a discussion with the Market Master about how our group owns this oak tree and the shade it provides.

Then another conversation with a lady in her early 70’s who has a daughter suffering from esophageal cancer that seems to have spread throughout her body. The daughter has adult children and grandchildren. Tomorrow is her 50th and possibly last birthday. I am sad to think of this because I am reminded of my own grandmother and how she suffered the loss of her oldest child from cancer.

Next 3 generations of a very obese family struggle their way up to our booth. The grandparents look as if they have shoplifted giant watermelons and have hidden them by stuffing them under their shirts. There is a little girl, a granddaughter who is relatively untainted by her for diet, but I see her future stretching out before me in gym shorts, 4XL t-shirts and feet so swollen that there are no laces in the grandfathers shoes. My ego puts on airs and issues smug judgements from ivory towers, but this is a self-defense mechanism. That fate was supposed to be mine. I quickly burn through this bullshit and see it for what it is. I am thankful that the unexpected and undeserved miracle happened. I’m working towards a marathon instead of a heart attack. This perspective is good and pure.

Sometimes karma punishes even minor, secret infractions. Today is one of those days. I am jolted out of my daydream by a warm milk dud bouncing off my forehead and rolling down my shirt. I can’t find it. It must have fallen on the ground. I look for the asshole or his kid who threw the milk dud at me. Seeing none, I look up at the great provider of shade and as I look at the stately oak I catch sight of a fat, satisfied looking squirrel an a branch directly overhead. I look at his face and recognize a familiar expression. It’s the same one I wear after taking a big shit. Satisfaction.

That wasn’t a milk dud that bounced off my head. That was a goddamn squirrel turd. I tell Jerry. He moves his chair to make sure it is safely under the canopy. It’s unlikely to happen again so I stay put. Besides, they’re small, hard little pellets and as far poop goes, they’re relatively innocuous.

My attention returns to people watching. A family with young children approach. Jerry talks to them the kids touch the “biofacts” which are a preserved eastern hellbender carcass and several skull reproductions of several species of animals. This is a violation of zoo policy. No touching allowed and you know…. it’s not that hot out yet and there is a cool breeze, but my butt sure is sweaty and no other part of me is damp. With a dawning dread I stand up to see if I have figured out the final resting place of the disappearing poo ball. I look at the spot on the chair I have been sitting in that corresponds to where the damp part of my butt had been sitting. I know I’ve solved the riddle when I identify a long black smear on the chair. I cleverly use my phone to see if there is a matching mark on my khaki shorts. I struggle to use the selfie lens on my phone to get a good shot.

I glance up at my new friends and in a rush of self awareness realize I have aroused their polite curiosity. Each of their faces seems to be silently asking, “Why is the New Guy taking butt selfies?” In an effort to make this all seem reasonable as well as to find answers, I tell Jerry, “I figured out where the poop went. My chair. Do my shorts look as bad as this chair?” Jerry looks for moment and the right words, eventually saying, “It looks like an inside job to me.”

Duane advises, “Maybe you should g o to the bathroom and clean up?” Betty Ray just stares. “Those shorts need to go in the washing machine. There’s no cleaning up in the bathroom!”

I excuse myself and say good bye. I’ll try again in two weeks. As I walk off I hear Duane observe “Well, that was a first.”

I take off my shorts. I make the thirty minute drive home in my underwear driving as carefully and nervously as if I were 16 and taking my driving test with a state trooper in the passenger seat.