Remember, back when we were teenagers, when we got our hands on a used toilet, took it to the streets with props and cameras, built a website, a farm system of “guest dumpers”, an online following, got banned from schools, made enemies, toilet heists, and everything that threatened to tear it all down?

       I mean, what we did with that toilet! These are the things legends are made of, what you look back on nearly 20 years ago (has it really been that long??). And it’s not what you think - well, maybe a little - to take a humble, discarded commode and transcend it into the ranks of minor celebrity.

       Over the years, people have asked me, “So when are you going to write a story about Iowa Dumping Grounds?” Because they remember. I suppose if you were part of this insanity, how could you forget? Regardless of whether you were right there sitting on that porcelain throne or a million miles away, it’s time to take you back to where it all began. Believe it or not, this story took me over a decade to finish, is one of my absolute favorites, and you guessed it, it's the featured story this month.

 

 

 

 

       The toilet was standard, factory white porcelain. Although the seat and cover were missing, the silver lever remained intact, along with a steel-braided hose dangling from the tank like the tentacle of a metallic squid. Rust stains bled from the screws, and the interior was warped and stained from years of hard use, a juvenile juxtaposition against the glossy exterior reflecting amber in the setting sun as the toilet – slightly askew - nestled comfortably in my front yard.

       I stood over this abandoned contraption, mind whirling through the numerous possibilities of its advent, when my dad threw open the window and enlightened me.

       “That’s the work of one of your idiot friends,” he hollered. “You get that thing outta here!”

       My dad was never one to keep up with the Joneses – in fact, he had always been one to provoke the Joneses - but I didn't have time to contemplate this sudden change in neighborly aptitude. Daylight was dying, and I had a bulky piece of hardware to dispose of.

       I ran through the rolodex of local depositories in my mind, but emerged with one viable option; the only dumpster in town familiar enough for me to feel ‘safe’ tossing in such a commodity. After all, I’d have to classify this sort of disposal as, shall we say, lightheartedly illegal. In the rare offenses where my life has graced such misdemeanors, I’ve always erred on the strength in numbers theory, that way if you get caught, everyone shoulders the blame; a perverse team lift, if you will.

       I pulled out my flip phone, pressing both the dial button and toilet lever. The ghost of a smile dusted my face as I placed the phone to my ear and simultaneously watered the front lawn.

       The Fareway grocery store sulked in the middle of town, flanked by an old Hardee’s converted to office space on one side and a low-income apartment complex on the other. They sold fresh meats, pastries and produce, and inordinate amounts of Busch Light. Many of my friends had moved off to dorm rooms or rental houses, but I remained, commuting to the bigger city for my training; running pipe and pulling wire in nasty grain processing plants with surly old men. It was a shock to the system, starting a career at age 19, considering it was only a few short months ago that I was bagging groceries here at Fareway.

       I eased into the parking lot as the last wisps of daylight faded behind the horizon, then backed into the spot adjacent to the dumpster and waited. No more than a minute passed before the crimson body of a Monte Carlo rolled into the lot, Nemmers stoic behind the wheel. Though short and athletic, Nemmers fancied cupcakes above all else. This combination transformed our dear friend into the original dad bod long before the term rose to prominence. He worked Fareway’s produce aisle, preferring the solitary chopping of fruit to the endless bagging and forced interactions with other human beings. Oftentimes, Nemmers would peek out from behind the coolers and, spying no customers within oratory distance, would scurry out with his cart, quickly restocking the empty shelves as if on the heels of a storm, and return to his confinement without conversation.

       This time, however, Nemmers had company.

       The passenger window rolled down. “Do you have the goods?” asked Cody. Nemmers preferred silence, so when he had to communicate, he’d bring a friend.

       I motioned toward the back of my Dakota. “See for yourself.”

       The pair exited the Monte and hovered over the side rails of my truck, Nemmers flaring his nostrils, as was his way. “It’s a toilet all right,” he confirmed, and pulled a pair of rubber gloves from his back pocket.

       I climbed out of the cab, popped the tailgate and jumped into the back. The others followed suit. We stood over the toilet; the orange parking lot lights gleaming off the porcelain made it look almost human, like a tired old man at the end of his days. Nemmers and Cody wrapped their fingers around the bowl.

       “It still works,” I said, a taste of melancholy on my tongue. They must have sensed it too, for they relaxed their grip and stood upright.

       “It almost seems a waste,” offered Cody. “To throw away a perfectly good toilet.” The darkness played tricks on my eyes, for the bowl looked back at me and offered a pitiful, open-mouthed smile, as if to say, “Why me?”

       Nemmers’s pragmatism kicked into gear. “Do you need a toilet?” he asked.

       “No.”

       “Then what would you use it for?”

       It’s moments like these that define us, separating the alphas from the rest of the pack. Where some shine under athletic prowess, building businesses, or climbing figurative ladders, I can say that our contributions to society never came in the form of tangible goods. Rather, what we offered humanity was of little monetary value; the absurdity of the young and the restless.

       “Let's take dumps in it,” I said flatly.

       Cody and Nemmers were taken aback. “What? Why?”

       “Not for real, mind you.” And I offered them a glimpse into the dark recesses of my mind. “There’s a half-naked guitar guy who stands in Time Square every day. Women flock from all over to take their picture with this man.” And I looked up, a flame of brilliance smoldering in my eyes. “This could be our half-naked guitar guy.” I bent down, running a hand along the porcelain, not unlike a lover’s caress. “Instead of holding a guitar,” I finished, “we pull our pants down and pretend to defecate.”

       I’m not sure under what spell I put them, but to my astonishment, the pair agreed that this was a cavalier idea. We hauled the toilet out, placed it between truck and dumpster, and opted for a test run. Cody and Nemmers looked away while I dropped my pants and squatted. The first thought to strike me was not how bizarre two young men snapping photos of another man sitting on a toilet in the middle of a parking lot on a crisp Friday evening was, but rather how insanely frigid porcelain gets in October.

       Had this been today, we could've easily snapped a photo and been done with the gag, but this was the mid 2000’s, the dark ages of cell phones, where if you simply wanted to type the letter Z in a text message, you had to press the 9 button an agonizing four times.

       Nemmers's flash wasn't working and Cody's camera was being grainy.

       I’d hear the shutter, followed by, “Nope, that didn’t come out,” or be lit up by a brief flame of white, then catch a groan of disapproval. This carried on long enough that a middle-aged couple walking a dog happened by. I'll give the boys credit, they at least huddled awkwardly in front of me like a pair of penguins keeping warm, so that the strangers merely saw my bare legs sticking out before hurrying away.

       Eventually, we got the photo, and with it a newfound sense of purpose. We were excited, hopped up on adrenaline and youth, and hungered for more, but we knew the Fareway parking lot could not contain this fledgling idea.

       “Then where will we go?” asked Cody. 

       “Take it to the streets, boys!” I shouted, and we hopped in the truck and peeled out.

       'The streets' turned out to be Chuckles's house, as he lived a mile out of town with no neighbors to poke suspicions or call the cops. We killed the lights before pulling into the gravel drive, parked behind the horse barn and moved in. As we suspected, the glare off the TV shed light enough into the kitchen to make out Chuckles, who was currently going through an ESPN phase, lying on the floor watching endless clips of useless commentary.

       He may or may not have been sleeping as we hauled the toilet onto the porch. I grabbed a newspaper laying on the stoop, dropped trow and spread open the paper. The flashes blended well with the flickering TV screen, and before we knew it, we were hauling our toilet back to the truck and cackling like a pack of hyenas.

       The first dump was taken, the first victim had fallen, but never would we have guessed what would happen in the days to come.

       Our biggest obstacle with our toilet runs was our inability to take quality pictures, and fast. Not all of our friends lived on secluded city limit roads – if we were to get them all, speed would be of necessity. Currently, our regiment consisted of a primary and backup flip phone, a flashlight, and three or four takes to get the shot. This would never hold up. Our first thought was to schlepp our problems off to our friend Hot Bill - who was renowned for his techno prowess - to root through his mad-hattery of technology for a superior alternative, but we had one big problem.

       Hot Bill was off to college.

       Still, electronics ran strong in the blood, so the following Friday night, we stormed the Goeke household and beseeched his little brother, BJ.

       "Hmm," pondered BJ, fingering his chin after we had explained our conundrum.

       "There's room for a fourth man," I said, sweetening the pot.

       BJ brightened. "Let me see what I have." He rummaged through his mom's birding bookcase, eventually producing a fine specimen.

       "A digital camera," gawked Nemmers.

       BJ smiled. "Eight megapixels, half a second flash delay."

       “My, my,” I breathed, placing the object in my hand.

       "Dusk is upon us," piped Cody.

       I'll admit nothing, except that we paraded around town like a gaggle of convicted perverts out on bail. Doorsteps couldn't contain us. We snapped photos at the local park, in front of the town welcome sign, playing tennis and washing cars. And when it was all said and done, we knew we had something special. The world needed to know who we were, and what we had done.

       "What, exactly, is this?" asked BJ, as we stood under the glow of the Fareway parking lot lights, leaning against the bed of the truck and reflecting on the night. “And who, exactly, are we?”

       Cody leaned in and prophesied. "We are The Toilet Warriors."

       With those words, I felt a newfound destiny come upon me; a heightened awareness, a steeled resolve. "We're the founding fathers," I said. "The original four."

       And then, as if on cue, Nemmers jumped into the scene, announcing himself while karate-chopping an invisible enemy. "Nauseous Nemmers!" he shouted, and in turn, we followed suit with our own retarded martial arts hand motions.

       Clenching teeth. "Crappin' Cody."

       A quivering fore-arm. "Bleedin' BJ."

       Double fist pump. "Dumpin’ Dan."

       Word got out, and fast, thanks to MySpace. For those of you too young to remember this website, allow me to explain it via math formula. Automobiles over horse and buggy equals Facebook over Myspace, only MySpace was much trashier, and a thousand times more obnoxious; horrid fonts and blinding text colors, and the music - God help us - the songs people soured their spaces with.

       What we had here was something much larger than four fools and a toilet. This was a bomb that couldn't be tucked away in stored files on our computers or held back by the insufferable flaws of MySpace.

       We launched the website the following weekend.

       Whenever we pranked each other with E-foolery, we generally reverted to our old free friend, .homestead.com. In fact, our earliest attempt at such joshery was thenemmers.homestead.com, which sought to find the truth with its anonymous poll; does Nemmers's head really resemble a male organ, for that was the height of our junior high wit. For the record, 90% said yes, with one dissenting vote.

       Those petty days were long behind us, and we knew .homestead.com lacked the professionalism of what we needed. We got a real URL, without extra binary, but it would cost us. After the 30-day free trial, we had to shell out $17 a month. An obstacle, yes, but we'd cross that bridge when we came to it.

       www.iowadumpinggrounds.com broke onto the scene as an instant smash hit. The primary focus was on The Toilet Warriors, each with our own page and photographic evidence of our accomplishments. But perhaps the most significant aspect was the link dedicated to others, an almost afterthought that transformed into our very own farm system.

       We called this the Guest Dumper Program.

       They'd hang out in the Fareway parking lot like migrants looking for work. "Me! Me! Pick me!" they'd shout, and we'd ease by in the Dakota, scouting for new talent. An array of young blood stood (or squatted) before us – sloppy teens with nothing better to do, exuberant as they plead their case, some even holding props like toilet paper, TIME Magazine, or a crochet set. It was only a couple weeks after we'd launched the website when I spotted an intriguing and familiar face in the crowd. I slammed on the brakes.

       "You there, step forward!"

       The young man looked around, then did as he was told. As he moved into the light, his features were revealed. He was stocky but capable, with ear gauges and a recklessness that blazed in his eyes.

       "McCutcheon?" gawked Nemmers from inside the cab. "The Infamous Bandit of Swagosa Hill?"

       "Indeed," I said. McCutcheon had long been a compatriot of ours, strumming guitars and banging drums, launching water balloons out the back of rolling pickup trucks, throwing open the doors of complete strangers' and pig squealing into their homes, but his thirst for mayhem made him unpredictable. I recalled our last gag together, where he took the reincarnation of The Macho Man Randy Savage a little too seriously. They say he walks the streets at night, I remember some pedestrian saying of his antics, calling out cowards and giving people fashion tips. But what had started with a trio of benign railroad hats and a ridiculous rap CD blaring out the speakers of a red Monte Carlo ended with peanut butter forced down the throats of his enemies and McCutcheon, with sinister delight, withholding the milk. Nemmers nearly succumbed to the madness of Swagosa Hill, narrowly thwarted by our friend Potter, his thick lenses, impeccable timing, and unreasonably sandpapery hands - a story for another day.

       I thought about all of that, and despite McCutcheon’s propensity to take things a little too far, knew that what he brought to the table might be exactly the secret sauce we needed.

       “Hop in!” I demanded. The rest of the hopefuls sighed at the prospect of waiting another week. As the crowd began to disperse, a red Blazer with spinning rims and chest-vibrating beats pulled into the lot. The tinted window rolled down.

       "Yo Dan," spoke Dubz, his voice matching the rhythmic bass. "Word is you guys are going dumpin' tonight."

       I nodded. "Every Friday."

       "I want in." Dubz preferred dark jackets, Timberland boots, and spoke in a husky, jagged whisper. Unlike the rest of us, Dubz wasn't native to our small town. Instead, he hailed from the hard-knock streets of Big City, Illinois, where they lifted cars on the weekends and staunched cigarettes with bare tongues.

       "Well," I said, "There's an application process, you'll need to sign the waiver, go through an interview, standard procedure."

       "C'mon Dan,” he pleaded. “Just let me ride."

       I shrugged. "Sorry man, we're just letting McCutcheon debut tonight – we can't get too big too fast."

       "But I wanna be Duking Dubz!"

       "We all want to be Dukin' Dubz," I said. "But we have protocol now. Come back next week and I'll see what we can do."

       Dubz darkened. "I see how it is," he said, and sped off.

       Behind me in the white Grand Prix, Cody honked. We rolled out and towards our destination, which had been strategically scouted earlier in the week. Fifth Ward Park was renowned for its cracked tennis courts, unforgiving cattle-tank basketball rims, and a score of playground equipment. We pulled into the gravel lot with a sense of excitement and dread – if we were caught, the punishment for our actions was more severe on public property. Wasting no time, we hopped out and made all haste towards the slides. Our toilet running – serially practiced in the backyard – was nailed down to a science; two men, hands under bowl and supporting the tank, and an awkward side-by-side cantor. The plan was to lug the toilet all the way to the top of the nearest slide, but no matter how we angled the thing, we couldn't work it up the tiny, child-sized ladder. Thinking on the fly, Nemmers and McCutcheon held the commode halfway up the slide, while I inched down and haphazardly climbed on top.

       "Close your eyes," I advised, and squatted. I pulled out a giant lollypop for good measure, and the pair released.

       Thankfully, the porcelain came to a halt on the edge of the slide before dumping off to ground level. BJ reviewed the picture, and when he gave the thumbs up, we moved on to defiling the rest of the equipment, the tennis courts, even the drinking fountain. Eventually, we came to a halt in front of the teeter-totter.

       "You’re up," I said to our guest dumper. "And grab your cigars."

       Cody plopped on one end of the seesaw while Nemmers and I steadied the potty on the other. McCutcheon, balancing precariously in the axis, slowly climbed towards the toilet, but as he inched closer, it became apparent that our geometry was off. Nemmers darted to the other side to counter the weight, leaving me to balance the toilet with McCutcheon bearing down. I should have volunteered for the other job, for I couldn't dare close my eyes as McCutcheon bared himself and mounted the throne. When the damage was done and all was steady, I let go and handed over the lighter.

       "Quickly now," I instructed. The teeter-totter was, well, beginning to teeter and totter. McCutcheon struck a light and puffed a few rings into the air. BJ whipped out the digital camera and snapped away. The latrine began to wobble, and I knew I couldn't wait for BJ's ok. I rushed into the shot, grabbing the bowl and a handful of his McCutcheon’s hide.

       "Lessen the weight!" I shouted. Cody and Nemmers panicked, letting off the totter and throwing The Bandit of Swagosa Hill into the dirt where he sprawled on the ground, dreadfully mooning us all in the act. But he was in one piece.

       So was the toilet.

       "Got it!" shouted BJ. Just then we heard the shrill ring of distant sirens. We nabbed the can and hurried back to the truck. As I climbed in, I noticed a note under my windshield, but didn't have time to read it. We rendezvoused back at the Fareway parking lot to decompress.

       Before we delved into the details of the evening, I grabbed the note off my windshield, and as I read it to the group, a slight chill trickled down my spine:
 

       Iowa Dumping Grounds was going viral, spreading beyond our small town and into the regional colleges. My sister even mentioned to me that an old acquaintance who still attended The University of Northern Iowa had shared the glory of this website with her. “Oh yes, I’m quite familiar with it,” she had bemoaned. “Dumpin’ Dan is my brother.”

       Meanwhile, BJ reported high traffic at Maquoketa High School during study hall – so high, in fact, that they had actually banned the site from all computers.

       It was all happening so fast. I didn't know what was next for us, only that we keep calm and dump on.

       McCutcheon’s heroics on the seesaw were the thing of legend, and tonight, they would be rewarded. After pulling into the Fareway parking lot, I announced to the group and all the potential guest dumpers, "Gentlemen (for there were no ladies here), let me introduce you to the fifth member of the Toilet Warriors. McGriddles McCutcheon!"

       We clapped and cheered, but as I scanned the crowd, I didn't see Dubz or his red Blazer. I had hoped he would come to his senses and join us, but perhaps he had given up, or simply forgotten. Or worse, a dark part of my mind spoke, instantly conjuring up the anonymous tip. I couldn't shake the feeling that something bad would happen.

       Acting on a whim, I changed gears and declared to the groupies, "Everyone, get in your vehicles, you're all coming tonight!' There was a whoop and a huzzah, champagne was popped and confetti rained down from somewhere on high.

       Cody moved in close, his voice low enough so the guest dumpers couldn’t hear. "Are you sure about this, Dan?"

       "No," I admitted, "Just a gut feeling."

       The train rolled out and into what later became known as Night of the Guest Dumper. Adam bared his white legs at Goodenow field while The Bridge inhaled leftover Hooters wings in front of a community sign. Topher reached for his heels on the porch of Fareway Mike's house, Stickly stuck a light bulb in his mouth in front of his dad's electrical business. Trevyn ordered from the McDonald's drive-through, Nick brushed his teeth outside the Dentist's office, and Schepers cheered from the grandstands at the fairgrounds. Suffice it to say, that toilet saw more ass than a Mardi-Gras proctologist that night.

       We were finishing up with the final dump of the night when a figure emerged from the darkness. I could make out only the silhouette of some great weapon held steady with both hands.

       "Who's there?" I demanded. Was this the unnamed enemy, the supposed culprit here to do us – or the toilet – harm?

       The apparition stepped into the light, revealing an easy smile, a crisp polo, and the white and black keys of an electronic piano clutched to his chest. "Ray-The-Charles Dumper," he announced, and donned a pair of shades. “At your service.”

       I smiled like the devil at this late arrival. "One more dump, boys!" I shouted.

       We drove out to the local KFC, plopped the toilet down in front of the double doors and watched in amazement as Ray-The-Charles worked his magic. He jerked his head left, then right – a stiff, lurching, zombie-like flail – smashing the keys to an invisible tune as if the flash of the camera were his beat, his pulse, his very soul. We applauded and cheered, enchanted by the daring innovation of this new character, his gawkish floundering, and the awkward beauty of his dance. It was glorious, it was perfection, a samba so mesmerizing that I almost missed the red Blazer pulling up behind.

       Almost.

       Dubz stepped out, his Timberlands crunching over the asphalt. He sported a puffy black coat, a flat bill cap, and the look of the damned. His minion, Fat Tom, appeared by his side, a bag of David’s sunflower seeds resting loosely in his front pocket.

       "Form ranks!" I shouted. To my astonishment, the guest dumpers obeyed, molding into a human wall around the toilet.

       Dubz and Tom halted in front of us. Their breath frosted in the chill of the eve; a discarded newspaper rolled by. Had they owned revolvers, they would have fingered them very intently.

       "What do you want?" I asked.

       Dubz smiled in sinister delight. "We’re here for the toilet,” he purred.

       I clenched my fists. "Over my dead body."

       His smile vanished like smoke. "So be it." Dubz unsheathed something from behind his back and leveled our way. It was a plunger – a used plunger. I knew it was second-hand because with every swing, water droplets flicked off the rubber, scalding our skin and burning our eyes.

       "There's feces in it!" shouted Dempsey, falling to the ground and clawing at his eyes.

Other dumpers moved in. Dubz slashed away, a madman fending off the mob with wild blows and maniacal laughter. “Oh yeah!” he shouted as he swung. “Boom!” The plunger whizzed past, struck forth, and glanced off guest dumpers.

       “He’s too powerful!” cried BJ, taking a rubber slap to the back, and collapsing.

       But Dubz wasn't pressing towards us, just holding his ground.

       A distraction.

       That’s when I noticed Fat Tom, worming his way around the dumpers’ flank.

       "Protect the toilet!" I screamed. Guest dumpers fell in front, blocking Tom's path like the secret service during an assault on the president. Those that stood their ground were quickly dispatched – blinded by sunflower seeds and spittle. I glanced back at Dubz, just in time to see the arc of the plunger swinging my way. It would have struck me square in the temple had it not been blocked by a wireless keyboard.

       "I'll take care of him!" shouted Ray-The-Charles Dumper. "Now save the toilet!"

       With no time to think, I dashed towards the stool where Nemmers was struggling to drag it away. I grasped the other end and we scampered towards the Dakota and tossed it in the back. The warzone quickly faded into a blur in my rearview. We sped to my house and stashed the toilet, then raced back to the crime scene. Our friends were dying out there, and with the privy now safe, we alone could help turn the tide.

       The Blazer was gone by the time we turned into the KFC parking lot. Guest dumpers lay scattered, moaning softly and nursing their wounds. Amidst the carnage, I spotted Ray-The-Charles. His keyboard lay shattered at his side, a ruin of broken keys and electronics dangling by the wires. Fecal droplets dusted his face, his hands and arms were covered in bruises or poop smudges – which, I couldn't tell.

       But he breathed.

       Nemmers appeared at my side. "Is he okay?"

       I squatted, wiped the excrement from Ray’s forehead. The words that came next were like poison, like vomit, like Dubz himself had plunged them out of my very lungs.

       “He'll live," I said. "But he'll never dump again."

       Our website came equipped with a pathetic guest book that visitors could sign. Assuming its users to be boomers who built websites for their three distant relatives to peruse, the web builder only allowed a dozen or so comments before it filled up and had to be emptied, which at this point was daily. To better herd this traffic, we upgraded to a message board and each took on an additional alias to post under.

       “It wouldn’t look right,” I explained, “If The Toilet Warriors were driving the narratives. Every good band needs a few groupies.”

       Nemmers became Jules, the obnoxious thug who typed in all caps. I transformed into Wiligus, the quintessential punk who quoted Hawthorne Heights and equated everything to getting high, while Cody morphed into Harold Pastrami, a sandwich dork who steered every conversation back to his favorite deli meats.

       The message board doles were filling, and we drowned the forum with all kinds of asinine commentary. Here’s but a sampling of the threads:
       Should the Toilet Warriors take on a sixth man???
       Favorite dump ever taken…go!

       My Dodge Dakota was jet black with a gray cloth interior, stick shift, and a chrome toolbox pilfered from my Ranger after it was murdered by a blind Asian woman seated behind the wheel of a giant Chevy Tahoe (don’t ask). It was a fabulous little truck, but in the wake of $3.00 per gallon gas and commuting 150 miles a day, I decided to purchase a second vehicle – a 4-cylinder Chevy Cavalier.

       The windows were crank and it lacked air conditioning, but it efficiently transported me to and from a nasty grain processing plant – specifically a quaint little hell-hole called ‘the expeller building,’ where they extracted all the undesirables out of the corn before sending it off for refinement. The walls were coated in primordial gunk, liquid dripped and pooled at random, everything (ceiling, floors, conduit) faded to an off-yellow vomit color that sometimes swirled with pukey orange/browns. Above all it was the smell – a horrid, palpable funk that enveloped the room like a smoker’s haze. The stench was so potent that I’d strip down in the parking lot at the end of the day, gargle mouthwash and toss the soiled bundle into the trunk so as not to foul up the interior.

       It was upon returning from one of these glorious work days, easing the Cavalier in front of my house and grabbing my lunch box, when I noticed another scrap of paper on my Dodge Dakota. I snatched it from under the windshield wiper and read.

 

 

       My mind was racing, trying to puzzle out the identity of this anonymous tipster, and of course, his angle. Was he truly a friend, or up to no good? Was this some clever ploy to get the toilet? And how did he know where our next dump would be?

       Because I had worked late, I didn’t have time to call in reinforcements or even mull over the possibilities with them. If I wanted to hear this source out, I had to go, and now.

       I hopped in my Dakota and drove down Summit, past the Country Club Golf Course and sheep farm before turning onto Route 64. I idled by Obie’s bar and grill and the entrance to the lock and dam before easing into the Walmart parking lot. Backing into an angled spot, I killed the engine, and waited.

       The store was neither busy nor slow in the weeks leading up to the holiday shopping season. The letters on the large marquee glowed big and brilliant, a white beacon for all of Jackson County. Walmart had moved into our hamlet in the early 90’s, killing off much of the downtown. When we were kids, we’d play hide-n-seek in the aisles or race wheelchairs in the lobby. My mom was an endless browser, and the closing fifteen, ten, and five-minute warnings were not unknown to me. We paged my mom a lot, or just asked the clerk to page each other with gag names.

       My passenger door opened, and in slipped a lanky figure cloaked in a hoodie. He turned towards me, the dome lights glinting off his thick lenses, illuminating that half-smile that always creased his lips.

       “Potter?” I said, bewildered. Potter had never dumped with us, or even shown interest. “You’re the anonymous friend?”

       “I come to you at grave danger to myself,” he said. He clicked off the dome light and removed his hoodie. “If they see me here with you…”

       I rolled my eyes. “How did you know that this is the site for our dump next week?”

       Potter sighed. “I may not have participated, but I’ve applauded from the sidelines. I also hacked into the message board, which is why I know that Dubz and Tom are plotting to take you down.”

       "How do they plan on doing that?"

       Potter went quiet for a moment, watching a cart boy make his way back to the corral. "They're coming for the toilet,” he finally said.

       I snorted. "It's locked away in a secret, secure location, known only to The Toilet Warriors."

       “In the shed?” he asked. “They know.”

       “How?” I demanded.

       Potter glanced out the passenger window, where an overweight family adorned in sloppy haircuts and sweatpants loaded an endless parade of bags into a rusty Explorer. "Perhaps you have a mole?"

       My mind raced. The most obvious answer was that one of the guest dumpers had been a plant and somehow overheard the whereabouts of the toilet. But who? They had all acted so valiantly in the previous week’s attack that I couldn't bear to accuse even one of them. Yet that left an even darker alternative.

       “Who?” I demanded.

       Potter shook his head. “That I don’t know. What I do know is that there are five toilet warriors. Minus you, that leaves four possibilities.”

       I felt the cold hand of betrayal cinching around my neck like a noose. Cody was a trusted conspirator, Nemmers and I were thick as thieves, BJ was true of mind and stout of heart, while McCutcheon, though a Bandit in name, lived and breathed for these kinds of gags.

       Potter opened a pack of Chicklets and popped a couple in his mouth. “How much longer can you dump, Dan?”

       “As long as we have to!” I hissed, my anger betraying my inner motive. “We can lose a warrior. We can relocate the toilet. We can dump forever, man!”

Potter ground the Chicklets under his molars. “Would you listen to yourself? Winter is almost here. The porcelain will freeze to your skin before you can snap a photo, and what then? It's only a matter of time before Dubz strikes again, only next time he'll bring a sledgehammer instead of a plunger, and as you’re struggling to pull your ass off the bowl, he'll be there, smashing that toilet to bits.”

       I felt my hands clenching the steering wheel, felt my career calling me out of this small town, felt my youth slipping through my fingers, even now.

       Even at 19.

       “End it,” said Potter. “Before someone gets hurt.” And with that, he exited the car, as sudden and abrupt as my teen years would depart upon my next birthday, only a few short weeks away.

       Despite the two-second flash delay, we snapped a lot of photos. During the week, Cody and I were tasked with the burdensome job of slogging through the rough drafts – cropping, chopping, and adding smiley faces where necessary. When pouring over half-nude photos of your friends, you get to know them in new, weird ways. McCutcheon had a mystery butt crack that only appeared on a full moon, Nemmers’ head cast shadows that looked like penises, while Cody sported incredibly hairy…thighs.

       The message board was clowning out of control, bogging down with juvenile rantings and random internet haters. At first, I had thought the notion that Iowa Dumping Grounds could possibly garner an enemy was ludicrous, but after the failed heist of the toilet, I didn’t know what to think. Despite the guest dumpers pledging their fealty and the long history of trust in each Toilet Warrior, I began to suspect everyone.

       Then came the public thread – a shot across the bow – posted by a secret alias, DumperThief45:

       Friday night came upon us. There was no pre-game parking lot pep talk, no guest dumpers, no cameras, not even a toilet. In honor of Ray-The-Charles Dumper, we decided to have a night of silence, and since McCutcheon was down with the sickness, that left only the founding four. We leaned against my truck, watching our breath frost and deciding what to do with our evening.

       “Wanna get some cupcakes?” offered Nemmers.

       Cody suggested the small town go-to. “We could drive around?”

       BJ elaborated. “How about we drive to the Dollar General warehouse parking lot and do tank circles in the round-a-bout?”

       “Until the guy in the fork truck runs us off,” I concluded with a laugh. All sounded promising, but before we could conclude, I felt a slight vibration in my pocket, followed by the 15-second techno remix of the Ghost Busters tune. I pulled my phone out. The number was blocked.

       “Hello?”

       “They’re coming for the toilet.” The voice was purposefully distorted, raspy and growled, but held a familiar cantor. His attempt at anonymity might have been successful had it not been for his unmistakable heavy breathing.

       “Tom?” I asked.

       Fat Tom paused, clearly mulling over his options now that his cover was blown. At last, he announced (as he always did), “I’m comin’ over!”

       Tom’s Oldsmobile rumbled down the road a few minutes later. He hopped out and lumbered towards us. “They’re coming this way!” he shouted.

       “It’s a ploy,” whispered BJ. “Tom can’t be trusted.”

       I narrowed my eyes as Tom halted in front of us. “Why would you help us?”

       “Some people don’t need motive,” Tom proudly asserted, a startling premonition years before Heath Ledger’s Joker ever spoke the words, “They just like to watch things burn.” He cackled like a bastard and added, “Plus, Dubz ate my McChicken yesterday.”

       “How can we believe you?” questioned Nemmers.

       “I can give you the name of the mole,” he said.

       “Who?” I demanded.

       “McCutcheon.”

       Cody placed a hand on the Dakota to steady himself. BJ shook his head like a disappointed father.

       “McGriddles McCutcheon,” I spat. “The Infamous Bandit of Swagosa Hill strikes again.”

       “He lied to you,” said Tom. “He doesn’t have the flu. In fact, him and Dubz are headed here right now!”
       Just as Tom finished the sentence, a pair of headlights turned down the lane. Ever so slowly it approached, easing to a stop in front of my neighbor’s yard. The engine died, the headlights winked off, the door opened. The lights had momentarily clouded my vision, so that all I could make out was a shadowy figure moving towards us in the darkness. As he approached, the details slowly came into context. It wasn’t his lanky figure or oversized hoodie, but the glint off his glasses that revealed his identity.
       “Potter!” I shouted, clapping him in a bear hug. “It is good to see you!”

       Potter offered a half-smile that revealed little, but enough. “I could no longer remain neutral,” he explained. “As long as there’s one good toilet left to dump on in this town, then I’ll stand ready to defend it.”

       “Tom just came to warn us,” explained Nemmers. “Dubz and McCutcheon are coming for the toilet, tonight.”

       “They know the toilet is stashed in the back shed,” Potter mused. “But they don’t know that we know that they know.” His joker’s smile touched his eyes. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

       I nodded, the threads of a hasty plot beginning to take shape. “Where do we hide?”

       We hauled my dad’s extension ladder out of the garage, propped it against the house, and climbed. From this vantage, we could see everything, and had a clear shot at the shed.

       “Look,” whispered Nemmers, pointing across the cornfield, to the pair of headlights turning down our lane.

       We hunkered into prone positions, the shingles hard and unforgiving under our bodies. Within moments, the vehicle appeared near the end of the lane, pulling into an abandoned gravel path. The lights shut off.

       “It’s them,” confirmed Nemmers, using his eagle-eye. Dubz and McCutcheon angled into the brush at the base of the cornfield, two black dots moving beneath a half moon. They ducked under scrub trees, Dubz carving a path through the weeds with his plunger, until they finally emerged at the base of my backyard. Like predators on a hunt, they paused, sniffed the breeze for scent and scanned for movement.

       McCutcheon crept out of the shadows first, stooping under an arm of branches and disappearing behind the shed before reappearing around the front. Dubz was behind him, sheathing the plunger and placing a hand on the roll-up door. Only by the light of the moon could I make out McCutcheon counting down on his fingers.

       The door rolled up, revealing the interior of the shed as it ascended; the grass-stained lawnmower, the rakes against the wall, the white porcelain of the lavatory, and two stout legs planted firmly on each flank. A cache of sunflower seeds spilled upon the floor was the only harbinger.

       “For the toilet!” shouted Tom, launching off the privy and spear-tackling Dubz to the ground, his knee somehow finding accidental purchase in the commotion.

“Oh, my nuts!” cried Dubz, grabbing at his package and momentarily blacking out.

       When he came to, he was staring down the barrel of his own plunger. He glanced left, at the fleeing figure of his accomplice, The Infamous Bandit of Swagosa Hill, escaping into the cornfield. With his allies having either betrayed or deserted him, and his weapon now in the hands of the enemy, Dubz knew the situation was dire.

       “What are you gonna do, Dan?” he rumbled, never losing composure. “Go plunging?”

       As I stood there, the plunger leveled at Dubz, a vision passed before my eyes. It was a moment of prescience, where you see your whole world, alpha and omega, smashed together in one cosmic dance. The years of jokes, gags and goofs – toilet paper and window chalk, midnight fast food runs and giant genitalia constructed of snow - all washed away by a tide of the inevitable; lunch boxes and overtime, 401k’s and house payments, calluses and wrinkles and a body in decline. It was a melancholy image, bitter in its honesty, Judas in its kiss.

       I dropped the plunger at Dubz’s feet.

       “What are you doing!?” cried BJ, verbalizing everyone’s thoughts.

       “Go on,” I said to Dubz, my voice but a breath.

       Dubz rose to his feet, eyeing me cautiously as if I would rescind my offer at any moment, then returned whence he came, the plunger still lying in the grass.

       "Why'd you let him go?” squawked Tom. “What if he comes back next week?"

       "There won't be a next week," I said. I realized now that the toilet was not the means to an end, but simply the culmination of my youth. You can only hold on to something for so long before it becomes a burden, before you yourself fade to Atlas.

       "The Toilet Warriors are divided,” acknowledged Cody. “And winter is upon us.”

       “Plus the $17 website fee is due,” added Nemmers. “Who has that kinda cash lying around?”

       “If not Dubz, then another man,” I lamented. “Rising up in his ashes and trying to claim the toilet for himself.”

       BJ spoke next, his words a sad, reverent awakening. "We can't dump in these conditions.”

       I felt the heaviness of the tears as they formed in the back of my eyes. "In a few months, I'll be moving, and we'll forever leave this behind us.” I glanced up, into the sky, into the half-moon. “Why linger on until then?”

       It was Potter who spoke next, placing his hand upon my shoulder and shining a ray of light.        “Then why not go out in a blaze of glory?"

       I drew my gaze from the cosmos, to my dear friend. "What are you proposing?" I asked.

       Potter smiled. "One last dump."

       At the time, loss was something I had little experience with. My world was changing – I felt it in my bones – but had not the vocabulary to express the sadness of this impending train. We plan, we prepare, we look ahead as far as our narrow vision can cast, but what do we ever really see?

       I never took my youth lightly. I like to think I made the most of it, that I squeezed every last drop out until there was nothing left but a dull, tattered rind.

       Without funding, the website shut down of its own accord, but the message board was a free service. And it’s still out there, somewhere. Perhaps you can find it.

       If you try.

       The toilet was standard, factory white porcelain. Although the seat and cover were missing, the silver lever remained intact, along with a steel-braided hose dangling from the tank like the tentacle of a metallic squid. Rust stains bled from the screws, and the interior was warped and stained from years of hard use, a juvenile juxtaposition against the glossy exterior reflecting the amber hue of the light pole as the toilet – slightly askew - nestled comfortably in the bed of my truck.

       Horseshoe Pond – once a grungy little basin known more for its pint-sized fish than its evening debauchery (drug deals, rocking vans, wandering drunks) – had undergone a facelift in recent years. A shallow creek where I once caught frogs and turtles flanked its perimeter, while a path had been mowed through the upper treeline years ago – the perfect sledding hill, so long as the water had frozen solid. A series of young willows were planted, paralleling old Route 61, where people would back their campers up to in the summer, tossing footballs and frisbees around company and campfire. With such pedestrians come the amenities – in particular, a small, wooden shack with two doors, two signs, and two commodes.

       “Here?” squawked Tom. “This is the dirtiest, sluttiest bathroom in town!”

       “And the best place to catch an STD,” remarked BJ, pointing a pair of sarcastic finger guns our way.

       The plan was for the wildest shot ever taken, a quadruple stack. By adding our toilet to the natives, we could get the pic so long as both doors were held open.

       “Uh, Dan,” said Nemmers, pushing open the men’s door. He sniffed the air and frowned. “We have a problem.” I pushed past him and saw the trouble with my own eyes. Our plan, of course, assumed there was a toilet and a latrine in the men’s bathroom.

       Potter poked his head in next, examined the situation. “You’ll have to pull off a double-decker dump.” He chuckled at this unserious prospect. “Who wants bottom?”

       Some laughed, others gagged, but nobody volunteered.

       “Forget the Founding Four Quadruple Crap,” I said. “What about a tandem tinkle?”

       Potter nodded at this. "But which two?" he asked.

       "Well, I've got the camera," said BJ.

       "Nemmers?” I asked. “Cody?"

       Nemmers waved us off. "You two go ahead," he said. "I like to watch."

       Cody smiled warmly. “God bless you,” he said, and mussed Nemmers’ hair.

       Tom and Potter took the honor of hauling the toilet out of the truck and cramming it into the little outhouse. Cody and I filed in after.

       “Look away now,” I instructed, and slipped off my khakis. The porcelain was frigid; a cold slap on the bottom sending tendrils up my spine. Cody unzipped and moved into position adjacent to me, however, after all that talk about STD’s, he refused to touch bottom. Instead, he grabbed onto the handlebars behind the toilet and hovered over the stainless steel can.

       “Say diarrhea,” said BJ, pressing his body against the back wall to get the perfect angle. I gripped the porcelain and clenched my jaw. Cody trembled and quaked like a cowboy on a wild bull. The flash lit up the darkness, emblazoning our images in digital memory, cementing our names in the halls of history. BJ giggled, then turned the camera and showcased the final product. Chortles turned to laughs, to chuckles and guffaws and rolling clouds of thunder. It was a mirth and levity witnessed by few – powerful in its density, beautiful in its honesty. It is the pure joy of teenage innocence and the anthem of our youth.

       Yet as marvelous and rare as these moments in life are, they too, shall come to pass.

       The laughter slowly faded, like the momentary jocularity at a funeral upon a burst of fine memory. We wiped the tears from our eyes and steadied our breathing. The silence lingered as we loaded the toilet into the truck, as we drove down old Highway 61 that vanishes into Main Street. Even as we turned into the Fareway parking lot, we were quiet.

       I backed up to the dumpster. Cody, Nemmers and I jumped into the bed of the truck while the others watched from below. Carefully, we lifted the toilet and placed it on the edge of the dumpster. Cody and Nemmers backed away, leaving me to balance the precarious old throne with one paw.

       I had imagined draping a flag over our porcelain friend, speaking a few words as we all tipped our Mountain Dews in honor, but things don’t always work out the way you envision. The internet was expanding, social media was taking its first awkward steps, while sites like Ebaum’s World were gathering the masses. We stood upon the threshold of YouTube fame before YouTube was a thing. The world was changing, and indeed I saw it in the stars, felt it in my bones like an old man sensing the approach of winter. I alone had the ability to carve out an existence in this universe, for myself and for us. Iowa Dumping Grounds was a grand experiment filled with jokes and laughs and the fountain of youth. Behind its juvenile photos and wacky content, I foresaw fame and fortune, everything you wanted, everything you ever dreamed of. Yours for the taking if you just pressed forward.

       I let go.

       The toilet wobbled for a breath before sliding into the dumpster, disappearing into a coffin of cardboard and saran wrap. There was no three-volley salute, no Taps, no tears. Only a profound moment of silence. I wondered if our children, or our children’s children, would one day return with their own toilet in tow, poking around this old place - teenage paleontologists digging up ancient laughs - and pick up where we left off. Would they, like their fathers, find humor in all the wrong places? Would they build something from nothing? Would they bond over the stupidest things, forging friendships that would last a lifetime?

       Or would they simply grow up to be better men than us?

       The run of The Toilet Warriors was hot and fast – not unlike the throes of diarrhea of which we had earlier pretended - and although it ended here, tonight, where it all began, I knew it would live on forever in the wellsprings of our memory, and in the depths our souls.

       I hopped off the truck and back to solid ground, inhaling the night air. The stars were alive, and my breath was beginning to frost. “Come on,” I said to the guys, tracing my callused fingers along the body of my Dakota, already feeling the absence of the old season, and a new one on the horizon.

       “It’s time to go home.”

~~~

          Abut the author:

          Danny Hankner began penning stories about himself and his idiot friends as a teenager. Now, masquerading as an adult, he lives in Davenport, Iowa with his wife and three children, working as a master electrician for his own company. In his spare time, Dan rides and builds mountain bike trails, scrapes infinitely spawning cat hurl off the basement floor, and runs Story Unlikely, an award-winning literary magazine where he floats around self-important titles like 'Editor-in-chief'. His work has besmirched the good reputation of many a publisher, garnering tens of thousands of reads in more countries than not.

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