No Dog Did That

My first home in D.C. was Woodley Park Towers, a big apartment building with two wings, long halls, a huge lobby, and even a gym and steam room. It was right near the zoo.

We moved there from Jersey in the summer of 1979. One night I was taking out the trash and in the garbage room on my floor I found a copy of Penthouse. The light bulb in my head immediately went off and I begin to search the garbage rooms on a regular basis. This was no small task. Each floor had two garbage rooms on either end and the building had something like eight floors (D.C. has pretty strict zoning laws on height so for the nation's capital it was a huge place).

There was also the trash compactor room in the basement to scrounge through as well. This was pretty much what I did every night. Every now and then I'd find a Playboy or Hustler but most of the time the best I could do was a Cosmopolitan or Glamour. Don't laugh, there was plenty of whack material in there for a 14 year-old boy. I still remember an issue of Cosmo with a pictorial on how to have a midday quickie.

One night I'm making the rounds and I'm pretty far from my apartment when nature calls. This was not about taking a leak. Something much more severe was brewing inside my stomach and intestines and needed to get out. My mom was never much of a cook and who knows what she whipped up but I calculated the odds and quickly realized there was no way I would make it back to my apartment in time to do what had to be done. Not only was I on the other side of the building, but for all intents and purpose there was only one bathroom in our place. My parents bathroom was off limits and I shared a room with my brother. My Dad also made free use of our bathroom too so there was no guarantee that even if I did get back there with clenched cheeks that I'd be home free.

I was near the roof though. I grabbed some newspapers from the garbage room I was in and headed up the stairs. There was no alarm on the door (ah, sweet seventies) but it did lock from the outside so I jammed some of the papers in the door and kept the rest for myself. I walked out on the roof, found what I thought was an appropriately secluded place, crouched down, and did what had to be done. Then I cleaned up as best I could and headed back to my apartment.

A few days later I'm walking through the lobby and one of the security guards I was buddies with motions me over.

Me: "Yeah, what's up?"
Guard; "You been up on the roof?"
Me: (acting surprised) "No, I don't go on the roof."
Guard: "You sure you weren't up on the roof the other night."
Me: No, I haven't been on the roof. Why?
Guard:" Someone took a big shit up there."
Me: (trying to hold back laughter) "What?"
Guard: "You heard me. Someone to a shit on the roof."
Me: "Well, it wasn't me, I swear."
Guard: "That's nasty man."
Me: "I'm telling you it wasn't me. Maybe it was a dog."
Guard: "No dog did that."

He had a point.

Alas, while that was the first time I had to take my business to the outdoors, it wouldn't be the last. Next time I'll tell you about the time I had to pull off a Laurel Canyon onto a side street and hide behind my car after the coffee at the party I was at worked its magic a lot faster that I thought it would.