Merchandise Shart – An Endearing Tale of Ingenuity

It began innocently on a Thursday afternoon in downtown Chicago. I had just left a function with a few glasses of wine and a beer churning in my belly. I was feeling spry as I headed to the nearest Brown Line station, not necessarily thinking I was about to create my own brown line.

I felt a rumbling in my belly. It was the kind of normal rumbling that is not concerning. The type of stomach churn one would expect from a tum tum full of cheap merlot. My initial thought was that it was perhaps a little gas. I was outside on a public sidewalk, so what better place to oblige my colon and do away with a little butt cloud from the fruit of the vine.. 

To my immediate chagrin, I knew something was wrong. This was not a fart. This was a fart with…sediment. It was…the much dreaded shart. 

I’m honestly impressed at my reflexes. I’d like to thank my fitness app for forcing me to do those daily air squats because my butt cheeks needed to engage! 

Desperate times call for desperate immediate action. I’m right-handed so I figured it was time for my left hand to be bled into the tribe. And by bled in, I mean pooped in. The moment I felt solid matter leaving my body, I reached into my pants and caught most of the foul sludge. 

I don’t know what this says about the city of Chicago, or the general dissociative mindset of society in general, but shockingly no one noticed or realized what I did next. 

Having caught my wretched body poison, I quickly swiped it across the stone walls of Chicago’s famous Merchandise Mart building.

A part of me is here now

Like a wild animal marking territory, I was forced to paint the stone wall with my personal brand. 

During times like these, I am glad that my historical curiosity helped provide a quick, less dirty respite from the moment. 

Opened in 1930, the Merchandise Mart was, at the time, the largest building in the world. Standing strong for almost a century, I am positive, the Mart has seen a few sharts over the years. 

The respite was short lived. Luckily, the building’s creator, Marshall Fields, has long since passed. I personally doubt the former owners, the Kennedy family, are going to come after me. Or will they?…  

When you rub your own feces along a 4-million square foot building, knowing you have a 40-minute public commute during rush hour awaiting you, you feel a lot of feelings. Thoughts like, “I wonder if this place is due for a monthly power wash soon,” or just, “OH GOD, WHY!” 

With still clenched cheeks and a mildly soiled, and a slightly soupy butt, I power-walked into the nearest door. Luckily the building averages about 20,000 visitors a day, so I knew a public restroom was likely to be nearby. 

Sometimes all a person needs to wash away the shame of crapping oneself in public as a full-blown adult is a clean, odorless, and thankfully empty bathroom. 

I proceeded to empty the liquid soap container into my hands, especially my left hand…  

I then popped into a stall, and realized that this would be my first attempt at a standing, clothed shower, without running water. That being said, the bar for success was low. Fortunately and to my surprise, I exceeded my expectations of not only feeling a bit cleaner, but salvaging my clothes as well. 

After finishing the brief bathroom soap and rinse, it dawned on me that I still had to take the train back home during the evening rush. If the word “shame” needed a visual definition, I’m sure we could substitute the image of a millennial man, entering a crowded train car, within 30-minutes of an unplanned bowel foul. 

I could smell myself. I made brief eye contact with another passenger. The quick aversion confirmed that people on the train might not have known what exactly happened, but they knew who was the culprit. 

I realized that each of the two seats beside me were left vacant. In any other circumstance on the train, this is ideal. In this situation, the empty seats were inanimate judges, staring at me in disgust. They seemed to highlight the fact that the other commuters preferred to pack tighter than be within arm’s length, or smelling distance from me. 

I likely aged a year or two on that train ride. After reaching my home stop, I shuffled a few more city blocks to the sanctuary of my condo. It was time to shed my armor, like a knight after returning from battle. While I managed to maintain the cleanliness of my shirt and pants, I accessed my boxers and the damage proved too brutal. 

I tossed them into a trash bag, while whistling the somber melody of taps. 

As for the damage to my ego? Well I’m still sorting that out.