9/7/2026
Nightcap Notes: A Shitty Day in Strongsville
The time frame is a bit blurry. I can't quite pinpoint it. Let's call it around the turn of the century. I wasn't driving yet, that's for damn sure.
It was a late summer evening, and I had recently become obsessed with the Halloween franchise. In fact, later that fall, my buddy and I dressed like Chucky and Michael Myers, respectively, and terrorized our neighborhood. But before I could properly become Michael Myers, I had to consume every single moment of the Myers family saga. And in those prehistoric days, that meant procuring VHS tapes and DVDs.
You see, we had recently discovered that our library contained a dynamite collection of movies, all free to rent, with a limit of, I believe, 10 per checkout. And they had some of the old Halloween movies. We struck gold. (Side note: My childhood library in Cleveland would often have old WWF pay-per-view VHS tapes available to check out, and that was when I learned what a boner was.)
Anyways... On this infamous warm, sunny day, we set out for the library. On bikes. I recently went back and looked at the distance. From my house to the old library (Strongsville has since opened a new one) it was 4.4 miles. One way. And this wasn't exactly a joyride around the neighborhood. We'd be trekking across busy streets and large intersections, armed with nothing but bicycles and the confidence of two idiots who hadn't yet developed a proper fear of death.
The trip there turned out to be no problem. We made it safely, parked our bikes, and marched our happy little asses inside. I perused the movies. I'll be honest, I can't remember exactly what they had or what I checked out that day. Presumably something involving Michael Myers slowly walking after people who were inexplicably incapable of running away from him. But I do remember that just as we were getting ready to leave, I felt a slight rumble. Nothing major. Nothing scary enough to make me consider stopping in the restroom before beginning the ride home. This would prove to be a tactical error.
I packed up my stuff, got on my bike, and took off for the 30-or-so-minute ride home. That's a rough estimate with traffic lights and such. Get off my dick about it. I made it about a mile. Then the rumble came back. But this time, it was aggressive. And it was lower. This wasn't a simple stomachache. This wasn't a cramp that could be cured with a stretch and a sip of water. This was the unmistakable pressure of a deposit locked, loaded, and waiting to be dumped.
Oof. I started to sweat. Of the many activities one can participate in while desperately trying to keep their bowels in check, pedaling a bicycle at high speed down a busy street ranks somewhere near the bottom. And let's not sit here and pretend you don't know exactly what I'm talking about. I don't care if you're sitting on an airplane, driving a car, exercising, trapped in a work meeting, whatever—we have all experienced the absolute terror of the initial "downtown pushdown." That first horrifying realization that something is happening internally, a toilet isn't immediately available, and your body has apparently decided that right now would be the perfect time. As one does, I clenched. I gritted my teeth. I fought off the urge.
After a few minutes, the rumbling subsided. I felt better. Great. Crisis averted. I'll make it home with ease. Wrong. It came back not even half a mile later. Stronger, angrier. By this point, my friend was maybe two houses ahead of me, riding along without a care in the world, completely oblivious to the biological warfare taking place behind him. All stores, gas stations, and any realistic chance for respite had been left behind within the first mile of leaving the library. My options were now limited: Power through, stop and knock on some stranger's door to ask if I could destroy their toilet, or simply give up and die. I'm a fighter, and an introvert. I chose to power on.
I'm not sure I can fully put into words how awful I felt during those final two miles. I was hot and cold at the same time. Sweat poured off me while goosebumps covered my arms. I couldn't decide whether it was safer to stand and pedal or remain seated. I quickly discovered that alternating between the two was a terrible idea. Sitting it was. At the very least, the bicycle seat provided a sort of pseudo-cork. A final line of defense between civilization and chaos. My legs became lethargic. My ass was fighting for its life. The brief moments of peace between bowel attacks were becoming shorter and shorter. Full panic mode had set in. I started surveying my surroundings like a soldier searching for an extraction point. Could I stop on the side of the road and just let loose? Unfortunately, by this point we were in the final mile, riding down a two-lane street with no sidewalks. Simply stopping and "dropping trou" could prove dangerous, both physically and legally. There would be no emergency landing. I had to keep pedaling.
Finally, we reached the entrance to our neighborhood. Salvation. I'd be home in less than three minutes. Three minutes. Anybody who has ever been in this situation knows three minutes can either feel like nothing or the entire lifespan of the universe. And then, as I got closer, the prairie dog pranced. I was in serious trouble. Just before turning onto my road, there was a steep downhill stretch. Normally, this was a chance to stop pedaling and coast. Not today. Coasting was a luxury my bowels would not allow. My legs began working harder. I flew down that hill at what could reasonably be described as an unsafe rate of speed, especially considering the intersection at the bottom did not have a stop sign for cross traffic. But traffic laws were no longer my concern. I had bigger problems.
Three houses from home. I could see it. Home, safety, a toilet. My friend peeled off toward his house, two houses before mine, blissfully unaware that he had just witnessed the final stages of a man's descent into madness. I surged ahead. I pulled into the driveway, jumped off my bike, and simply let it crash to the ground. No kickstand, no gently laying it down. There was no time for dignity. I ran toward the front door as fast as one can run while clenched to maximum capacity and attempting to prevent an internal explosion. Up the steps, across the porch, I reached for the door. My hand touched the handle. And at that moment, the battle was lost.
I'll spare you the graphic details. Just know that I was wearing loose boxers and baggy athletic shorts. No support, no security, no glove to catch anything. There was nothing I could do. I stopped moving and accepted my fate. Attempting another step would have only made matters worse. A larger mess, perhaps. So there I stood, frozen on my own front porch, mere inches from salvation, while my body betrayed me in spectacular fashion.
The entire ordeal probably lasted five seconds. It might as well have been a lifetime. When it was finally over, I slowly looked around. No neighbors, no cars, no witnesses. It was evening but still daylight, not quite dusk. Phew. I hurried inside. The plan was simple: clean myself up, change my clothes, regain whatever dignity remained, and then return to the porch to dispose of the evidence. I was just finishing getting changed when I heard my mom yell to my dad from downstairs: "Something shit on our steps!"
I froze.
Oh fuck.