“The Brown Board”
By Robert Bletcher
Big Jim Pendleton’s nostrils twitched angry.
“What the..fu..c...kkk....ohh....Jesus...God Almighty,” Jim muttered, squinting and whipping his head back as if struck. "Jesus Horatio Hornblower Christ...who did this?”
But BJ embraced the wretchedness. There was no other option but to drink deeply through the nose, to fully experience the putridity and liquiescence of what used to be bacon wrapped shrimp, now moleleculary bound in a swirling bowl of water. No masochist with a messianic complex could walk away without questions.
“We have a right to know,” Jim muttered as he gathered his magnificence from the mirror, and exited without urinating as planned.
He tightened the bolero tie adorning the blistering peach-colored suit clinging to his large form with attitudinal static. BJ straightened the signature Big Jim white cowboy hat and clomped off down the hall. And he came to a door....
And he nodded to the secretaries he’d banged and to those remaining on the “to bang” list. Then he walked on down the hall...and he came to another door. Big Jim poked his oversize dome inside, looking like an instant redneck sunrise to the sales folks....and he nodded and smiled at the sales folks. And he was confident they felt important. And BJ said to himself, “Let there be sales” and there were moderate sales.
In the early 1980s, BJ’d squatted, strained, growled and grunted and Pendleton Office crowned....then dropped to the floor of existence.
The years insisted upon turning, but BJ would not turn with them in most respects. He’d insisted the fax was a poor substitute for a phone call or a personal visit, and then the dot.commers came hard, but BJ insisted the internet was a fad meant to fade faster than coloreds’ voting rights. And when the millennium prematurely ejaculated in December of 1999, it was BJ who’d stood as a fortified tower, refusing to spend the money on Y2K patches. The new computers needed in the aftermath would’ve been needed anyway, he’d reasoned.
And in the early augghtt augghtt years, it became abundantly clear office supplies in rural Texas were relatively immune to technological trends. Bucking every innovation since color television still resulted in moderate sales and peach colored suits for the owner. What else was there?
Back in the Lauper era, the Pendleton building itself had skyrocketed from the denim culture of Maplethorpe, Texas to become the cubic zirconia of a really small downtown. Pendleton had risen high and hard from a landscape plagued by perpetual ED. A first floor shipping and receiving department AND a second floor sales and executive offices floor was unheard of in these parts. In more recent times, the building looked more run down, had a few cracks, had a few bricks missing and the prairie winds had left the fading, original sign hanging a bit off center and a bit...smoother than it should’ve been.
The more things stayed the same, the more things stayed tolerable. And one of the constants in any office, in any country in the world, was the one or two urinals and the one or two sit down commodes available for use for male employees in a moderately sized company. At Pendleton Office, that excrement tenement belonged to BJ. And with that fact in tow, BJ determined no further insults would be suffered. The experience he’d just had finally induced the birth of a long gestating concept. No longer would he be subjected to olefactoryily assaults by the egress of the demons inhabiting the bowels of those had sat before. Without him, no Pendleton Office. Without him, no Pendleton Office crapatorium. It was his bathroom, anyway you chose to cut that cheese.
Big Jim Pendleton was a big man physically and an even bigger man inside his lobes. A card carrying member of the cable layers Local #514, Jim was tall, taller than six feet three, and he carried a beach ball in his shirt that had him topping out beyond three bills. He was as responsible as anyone for the air quality in the second floor men’s room. But....he’d told himself once though, that his shit didn’t stink and he’d taken readily to that notion.
Employment opportunities in the tri-county area for those looking to be indoors during the Texas summers were few and far between, but he’d given just that to a bunch of community college graduates and the like. A dab of accountability for the condition of his bathroom did not seem to be unreasonable. With a press of a desk button activating the public address system, a resolution began to move from the top down.
“Gentlemen of Pendleton Office, meet me in the downstairs break room for a short meeting at 2 p.m.,” Jim, thundered throughout the corridors. “This is a required BJ session.”
The building nearly literally rippled with chuckles. Abbreviating a self-given nickname that corresponded to a sex act in conjunction with an older man’s attempt to be hip...well...maybe not that wise in terms of increasing employee respect.
The twenty or so male employees of Pendleton took hard, blue plastic seats in the break room, stroked their mustaches, fiddled with the pens in their pockets, made idle small talk about pending sales or lack thereof, the Texans’ loss on Sunday and waited patiently for the always slow in coming BJ.
Jim strode into the room with the brown board under his arm. It was one of those boards you could write on with the magic marker, erase it, and start again. It fastened to a wall easily. Immediately, the room began to crackle with something akin to abnormal importance. BJ’s demeanor indicated this was more than a “please stop wasting post-its” meeting.
“Good afternoon gentlemen,” Big Jim said, professionally. “I’ve brought us together today to discuss the second floor bathroom.”
White collared shirted heads and red tied necks attempted to make eye contact, but it was all beyond the pale to them and most chose to look at their shoes.
“I need to know gentlemen.” BJ said calmly. “I need to know. We all have a right to know. This is about accountability.”
The least observant among them were swept up in a pending BJ explosion of passion and purpose.
He took a real long pause, his eyes blazed with pentecostal fury and the white collared feared for their jobs and their spines became erect and the Costanzas among them looked annoyed, and BJ said it was correct and it was correct.
“Let me put it to you this way gentlemen,” BJ said, walking away from the head table, stroking his chin, then walking back again. “Those who pollute, must be resolute, those who grow tails must never fail, those who leave piles must go the extra miles, those who are rotten must not be forgotten.”
Beads of sweat peppered the surface of BJ’s forehead and his chest heaved with adrenaline. The Pendleton men had only seen this level of passion when the secretarial pool failed to follow the short skirt dress code or on the odd occasion when a color copier, fax or email machine challenged BJ’s lack of technology comprehension. But he burned for this, whatever the this was. The Pendleton men non verbally agreed on this point. The bewildered gazes of the would be team players created a temporary void that Big Jim quickly filled.
“This is the brown board gentlemen.”
Jim Pendleton lifted up the semi-glossy, brown board above his head, then slammed it down on the conference table. It was a mocha color. It was about three by three or so and the scene resembled Chuck Heston’s descent from Mt. Sinai.
“Let my fecal go,” Jim thundered.
The Pendelton men stared. Somebody stifled a burp.
“The brown board concept is simple gentlemen, “Jim said. “We are all going to be accountable for what is left behind. Me included. Defecation will mean liberation, waste elimination will mean no more consternation. Are you with me men?”
“What do you mean Mr. P?” said a brave, anonymous voice from the back of the room.
The big man sighed and projected thoughtfulness. Then he spoke and paced.
“Have you ever walked into the second floor men’s room, innocently, unsuspectingly, to do nature’s business, only to be smacked in the face by the hot, stinging waves of something unholy? Have you ever settled innocently on a slightly warm toilet seat and felt the essence of what had been dropped off shortly before..have you had it...invade your unwilling nostrils like an alien probe at three in the morning? Have you ever wanted someone to stand up and take responsibility for what they’d wrought?...Of course we all have.....Well boys, now we’ll know.”
There was silence.
“You will sign in, with your first initial and last name, with the time, with the date, with the letter code for the offense,” his voice quivered strong. “We’ll do a sample.”
He pulled out a Sharpie and began to write on the board while narrating.
“A sample entry, would read like this, BJ. Pendleton, 9/30/06, 2:05 p.m., CB,” he said, writing on the board. “Does that make sense gentlemen?”
Crickets chirped, mustaches were smoothed, ties were stroked, but nobody spoke.
He gazed across the room at the confused men of Pendleton Office and then he pulled out an ordinary looking piece of paper.
“This letter key code will help you understand,” Jim said, pulling a typed sheet from his ass a-la Wile E. Coyote. “This will be laminated and posted next to the board. Let’s run through the code real quick.”
SN--Snakes (to be used if you’ve left wavy, long refuse resembling a snake or earthworm)
FF--French Fries (to be used if your pile resembles a large fry from McDonalds)
HI--Hawaiian Island (to be used if the mound of feces breaks the surface of the water)
PB--Peanut Butter (to be used if you must wipe more than a dozen times to become clean)
SD--Salad (to be used only if undigested lettuce and tomato is present)
CN--Corn (we’ve all been there...)
BB--Blue Berries (see, the corn rule)
JB--Just Blood (please see a doctor immediately)
BOTS--Back of the Toilet Splatterhouse (to be used if a projectile stain occurs)
CB--Crudballs (to be used if your refuse resembles that of a rabbit)
IG--Intestinal gas (to be used if you do not make a deposit in the feces bank, but an offending odor is present nonetheless)
SOB--South of the Border (think salsa)
TT--Traditional tail (nice, long, well formed tail)
SA--Sand (think your favorite beach, but more brown)
BO--Black oil (medical attention may be necessary)
PN-- Peanuts (possibilities include Baby Ruth, Snickers, Mr. Goodbar, Payday, or just a night with Mr. Peanut, etc...)
PS--Pea Soup (any refuse with a greenish color will suffice here, who knows why this happens now and again?)
LG--Logs (this indicates anything which seems larger than the circumference of the anus)
UFR--Unflushable Remnants (pesky floaters that simply will not recede)
HVS--Homemade vegetable soup (a potpourri of vegetables in a creamy broth, very different from either CN or SA, so be sure to choose accurately)
SF--Specific Food (something that smells exactly like chicken, filet mignon, etc...)
If you feel the need that one entry does not cover you, a combo entry will be permitted. Example: PBSN, peanut butter snakes, or, SAHI, Sandy Hawaiian Island. I think that ought to cover just about every eventuality.”
Stifled chuckles and aborted guffaws threatened. BJ was becoming purple with intensity. He was problem solving and there was nothing funny about that.
“Questions gentlemen?”
“Um, Mr. Pendleton,” a tentative 20-something sputtered. “I....I....don’t do that here much...will that have any reflection on my performance evaluation?”
Big Jim stroked his chin as he contemplated the question.
“Yes, yes it will...Anybody else? Yes, you?”
“Is this legal sir?” another youngster asked. “I’m not altogether certain you can force us to report out on the...uh....contents and odor of our...of...uh...our.....discharge.”
“Discharge?” BJ rumbled. “I’ll discharge your ass.”
“Yes sir.”
“This ain’t about your dinner heading out to sea son. You’re not getting this,” BJ projected, god-like...then he genuinely sighed. “This is about responsibility. Accountability is what this nation, what the great state of Texas, what this company....was founded on. We will be accountable. I’m not going to have my shithouse become a bastion of communism. ‘It smells like a goddamn sewer, but it’s all of our all faults?’ No, not on my watch. I won’t have that crap here boys. We all have a right to know. We have a right to know. I have a right to know.”
BJ paused for effect.
“That it? Thank you gentlemen, that will be all,” Jim said, with a wave of the hand, as he scooped up the brown board and the Sharpie and he...and he walked on down the hall.
And the brown board was born.
In Maplethorpe, the chance to be in the air conditioning meant you’d exceeded your daddy’s finest hopes and dreams. Consequently, the Pendleton men embraced the board as part of the dues due.
The months passed and the letter key code wormed its way into the lexicon of the office.
“Eeek, CBs Dave,?” a Pendleton man might say. “Grape Nuts again?”
“Phew, dang Rick you feeling Ok? That’s three straight days of BOTS? You doing all right man? Mix in some bread or something maybe?” another would say.
“Michael, congratulations on that,” a P-man would say. “That was some nostril hair burning action brother. Excellent SOB.”
And so it went, for many months in the late summer and into the fall and on toward Christmas. And big Jim was pleased.
That is....until an unauthorized entry appeared on the board one day in early December.
“JC..J.Christian.....who the hell is J.Christian?” Big Jim muttered. “There’s no JC on my code.”
“I’ve seen it,” a voice said from behind a closed stall in the Pendleton bathroom said scared. ”I know what that means.”
“What? Who is that? Who’s in there?”
“Just one of the chosen....one of your....employees.”
“You laying cable in there boy?,” Jim said, sniffing while washing his hands. “Maybe, got some SF emerging in there?”
“Yes sir. Had pulled pork for lunch.”
“Good boy. You tell me what you’ve seen, boy. Just between a couple of us ol’ Texans. It won’t leave this room.”
“I can’t say sir. I....can’t. If you come back about 1:40 p.m.....it’ll be there. It’s been that way every day for a few months. That’s all I can say.”
And the roll squeaked and the toilet flushed and BJ walked on down the hall.
At thirteenhundredthirtynine BJ gasped audibly as we walked into his bathroom. After shirking the initial shock, he pretended to busy himself with vigorous hand washing, while peripherally witnessing a tall, skinny man with strange facial hair, carefully writing JC on the brown board. Jim had his perp and that perp was whirled upon. The skinny man whirled and faced him back.
“Son?”
“Yes?”
“Why are you writing JC on my board?”
“Why not?
Jim sneered and looked this young buck up and down.
“I don’t remember hiring you.”
“Who says you did?”
“Who are you boy?”
“I am the way, the poop and the life.”
“Fuck you say?”
“I know what you do here.....sir,” the gangly kid hissed. “You think your transgressions are invisible? Not in the eyes of the Lord they aren’t.”
BJ pulsed.
“Who the fuck do you think you are son?”
“I am the alpha and omega, I am the beginning and the hind end.”
And the kid smiled as he reached for the bathroom door, but the door was pushed shut by Big Jim. The kid reacted with a smile only, projecting confidence and impudence and possibly incontinence.
“I’ve done this before you know. No temple stays right side with JC on watch.”
And this time the door flung open without resistance. Jim stared after him, then walked to the board and checked out the entry thoroughly. It was neat and in order and unauthorized. He whipped the bathroom door open and his head swiveled in both directions, but there was nothing.
And BJ walked on down the hall....and he bellowed toward HR.
“We got anybody with JC initials? God dammitt......missy... answer me.”
BJ reached Cathy’s cubicle finally after several strides of bellowing.
“You’re talking about Jon Christian,” she said, reverently.
“What about him?”
“Nothing.”
“What about him missy?”
“He’s not from here sir,” she whispered.
“I don’t give a prairie dog’s asshole where he’s from.”
“He’s got the signs of the shytmata sir,” she mumbled.
“The what?”
“Some say he’s been bleeding brown from his palms and feet.”
“What the hell...?
“I haven’t seen it, we’ve seen...well. ...we’ve seen other stuff.....He’s been writing JC on your board....cause...cause....
“What in the hell are you talking about missy?”
“Cause he’s been getting colon delivered messages from the almighty..sir.”
Big Jim squinted quizzical. That's all he could do.
“HE is appearing in his.....stuff....sir. I’ve seen it myself. Sometimes...he takes a wooden spoon, fishes it... out, puts it in a plastic bag and shows it to all the girls up here. And we see that face....”
“What face?”
“HIM.”
BJ was getting pissed. Somebody was making a mockery of not only the board, but of his cadre of office skankretaries. He rushed casual to the cubicles of some Pendleton men to see if both sexes were getting the spiel from Jon Christian. Sure enough, Jon had been witnessing to many of the men as well, calling them into the bathroom to get an eyeful of the swimming apparition of the man who used to walk on the water, but now swirled struggling, for reasons known only to HIM.
BJ walked on down the hall..... and....he came to his door...and he sat behind his desk and rubbed his ample forehead.....and....he made a phone call.
It took only minutes for Father Brown to arrive once hearing the nature of the emergency.
“I apologize for calling you down here. Can I get you a drink?”
The men nodded to each other and shook hands.
“Absolutely BJ, whatever you have on hand is fine.”
Jim walked over to his office wet bar.
“I could tell by the tone of your voice that there’s a big ol’ brick in your britches.”
Father Brown had a seat on BJ’s leather couch.
BJ handed Father Brown a throat stinging White Russian and then collapsed on the other end of the couch. He took a huge swig of the martini he’d made himself.
“Forgive me Father, but there is no other way for me to say these things without being blunt.”
Understanding glances were exchanged.
“I got this employee, that I don’t remember hiring, going round convincing folks he’s crapping out....that the face of our Christ is apparent in his refuse.”
“Pardon me?”
“Father, he, he has some folks thinking they see our Lord’s face in his....droppings. And, what’s worse, I got some good people here seeing....smart people...thinking that....that believe it.”
Father Brown drank.
“Have you seen it BJ?”
“No Father.”
“Well....I’ll be honest with you BJ,”Father Brown said, sitting his Russian down. “The fecal incarnation of Christ is not recognized by most texts, but there are some precedents in the literature along these lines.”
“Father?”
“There is a school of thought that the Shroud of Turin was mistranslated and the garment, is actually an adult diaper worn by the Christ. The words, according to certain scholars, are literally translated as the Shroud of Turdin.”
BJ nodded intensely, taking another gulp of martini.
“There is a long standing renegade portion of the church that has been pushing various holinesses for centuries to acquiesce to a veneration of the pantaloons worn by Brother Edward the Flatulent. Legend has it, that Edward, who lived in the 15th century, was giving a sermon to some Spaniards on the side of a mountain when Satan caused him to become flatulent to the point it drowned out his remarks. “Diablo farteresquo, Diablo farteresquo!! the villagers shouted, which roughly translated means, `The devil speaks through the anus.’ The villagers took it as a sign that since Edward spoke the truth, Satan had attempted to drown him out. They say the shards of Edward’s undergarments he wore that day are kept in a sacred vase in the cathedral of an unknown Catalonian village.”
Father Brown drank and thought.
“And also, well.... you’ve got the Peruvian Mudslide of 1701, the Brown Eye of Dunai in 1914, and the Enema of Fatima in 1972. Of course, keeping in mind, none of these events has been recognized by the church.”
“I see Father,” Jim said, stroking his chin. “That’s a lot of shit to consider. Oh...shit, excuse me Father.”
“No problem my son,” Father Brown said, smiling.
“Maybe you could meet this fellow here and assess his claims of devine.....defecation?”
“Certainly BJ. Certainly.”
They walked on down the hall.
Father Brown gagged as he entered the bathroom first, with BJ on his heels.
“Lord have mercy, Lord have mercy,” the Father said, raising the back of his hand to his nose.
“Jesus Christ” BJ gasped, squinting.
“Yes?” a voice came from a stall.
“That you Christian?” BJ asked. “What the same hell is going on in there?”
“Ugghhh...ughghhh....” Jon Christian groaned. “Experyoiul, youluiouo...”
“Lord he’s speaking in tongues,” Father Brown said.
And then there was an audible splash..and a groan of release.
“Holy Mary, pray for us, holy mother of God, let him find in you Lord, a fortified tower.”
“What is it Father?” BJ asked, gasping in the green fog.
“Something is unclean here."
“Ughghgh...oh....god....iickkk, ohhh....ggg” Jon Christian gasped.
The stall walls virtually quaked with JC’s agony and BJ and Father Brown...well, they exchanged the glance of people who know each other.
“I command you unclean spirit, along with all your minions, now attacking this servant of God, by the mysteries of the incarnation, passion, resurrection and ascension of our Lord Jesus Christ, tell me by some sign your name.”
“Ohhhhhh....gooooddddd....”Jon Christian wailed. “Oh....oh....Jesus......”
And another chunky splashdown ensued.
“Jim Pendleton...”Jon Christian blathered unnatural. “I know what you are.”
Father Brown and BJ exchanged that look.
“Tell me by some sign your name, the day and hour of your departure,” Father Brown said.
“Are you hard of smelling father?” Jon Christian groaned. “I believe the hour of departure has been established. Can you not smell that? Let me tell you about Jim Pendleton Father. Ohhhh...gooddd......why, why has thou forsaken me and forced onto me the devil’s chalupa?”
The stall writhed with human misery.
“Go ahead and speak to me my son.”
“Father?” BJ said, taking off his hat out of respect.
Father Brown held his hand up toward BJ and nodded.
“Let him say his piece,” he whispered.
“BJ is nothing but a male...uhhhghgg...fantasy,” Jon Christian bellowed. “The big hat, the big smiling cowboy...act...it’s all a lie. He’s an embezzler, a liar and a fornicator.”
“Ok, that’s it, I’ve tried to be professional, I brought in my priest because I actually thought...but it’s ass kicking time son.”
BJ lunged toward the stall but Father Brown held him back with a cautionary hand.
“Blessed are you when they insult you and persecute you and falsely say every kind of evil against you because of me,” Jon Christian grunted.
“What the hell?” BJ sputtered.
“Matthew 5, verse 11,” Father Brown confirmed.
Father Brown and BJ did the eye contact thing once more.
“What are you saying my son?”
“You know what...ughghgh...I say....”
And in the next second Big Jim doubled over with pain and clutched his abdomen with a groan.
“Oh, ohh. god...I gotta get in there,” BJ moaned, unbuckling his plate sized belt buckle and lunging into the second stall.
“BJ,” Father Brown called, but he was already slamming the stall door shut.
And the anal shrapnel from the big man hailed down into the unsuspecting toilet water. Father Brown watched as the stalls shook with fecal fury and those who dwelled within attempted to cast out Satan or bad clams or something from their bowels.
“Ohh...shit,.....ohh...jesus christ....ohh...,” BJ wailed.
“In my name, they will drive out demons,” Jon Christian, grunted.
“What was served in your commissary today gentlemen?” Father Brown asked two metal doors.
“Liar...fornicator....”Jon Christian gasped.
“Father, father...”BJ, wailed from his stall as the dysentery rained down like manna. “You know me father. Surely...you of all people...know BJ. ”
“Ugghh...ohhh..... he is an embezzler.....and a banger of secretaries...and.....a demeanor of men....and a liar...and....hypocrite...and....ughgghgh.”
And the stall walls vibrated with cursing and scripture and the moving of the bowels.
Father Brown knelt on the filthy floor, fingered every bead of his precious rosary and he prayed for guidance. Just as though it seemed the two men might literally explode, there was garden of gethsamene silence.
“Thank you father,” Father Brown whispered, kissing the rosary beads as he stood. “Thank you.”
Father Brown straightened himself, confident the truth had been revealed.
He grunted and kicked open the stall belonging to Jon Christian and he whirled a-la Jackie Chan and kicked open the stall belonging to BJ, and his shoulders heaved with anticipation and sweat and intensity. He looked into Jon Christian’s stall and saw a dehydrated, panting lump and he looked into BJ’s stall and saw a dehydrated, panting lump.
There was no difference between those who occupied everyman’s throne.
“John the Flanders said... the Antichrist would come as a deceiver,” Father Brown hissed. “Revelations chapter...ah shit, the whole damn thing.”
Father Brown breathed hard and he looked into the flickering eyes of the afflicted. He surveyed the situation. He stood before the two crumpled and spent men, their pants around their ankles, and he prepared to pass judgment.
“Look, look Father,” Jon Christian whispered, as he fumbled for his zipper. “The truth circles beneath us. Big Jim Pendleton...he lies and he steals and he fornicates and....”
“Liar! Liar! He is a damned liar Father.” Jim screeched," attempting credibility. “You know BJ is good. BJ is good Father. Surely you of all people, know that.”
Father Brown glared them down with the glare reserved for those whose judgments matter. He sighed and he spoke.
“You know boys, the identified enemy of the church is a trinity. Yes, ironic I know. That trinity consists of evidence, science and logic. ‘Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding.’ Psalm 3:5.”
BJ and Jon Christian panted in their stalls, and looked up at Father Brown without understanding.
“There are times....and this is one....when it is not necessary to look to either the trinity of the secular man or the trinity of the righteous man for answers. Some answers are apparent to all.”
“Father?” BJ grunted, attempting to stand up.
“I don’t see anything here except a couple of pieces of shit.”
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