A View From Behind The Drumkit: Toilet Taboo

A View From Behind The Drumkit is a weekly column written by Darkest Hour drummer Ryan Parrish. Follow along as he scribes down some anecdotes and advice from his many years of touring.

It's never easy to admit defeat. One of the most undeniable hang ups of human beings is simply stomaching the fact that he or she has been warranted incorrect or taken down swiftly. Does it make us better people overall? Sure. Is it humbling and educating? Without a doubt. Yet, much to the touring musician's dismay, these defeatist qualities loom in the shadows on the day to day when surviving on the road. This may seem disheartening for some to ideate that at any given juncture while shedding your blood, sweat, and tears to audiences worldwide, that a manageable occurrence can petition defeat into your life. It's palpable and, unfortunately, an unequivocal possibility. You still with me? Anyone picking up what I'm putting down? If not, don't fear. Let me give you an example of what I'm harboring.

It was just another humdrum, early morning travel day for us (Darkest Hour) as we frivolously zoomed down the highway toward the next city USA. Can't quite recall the point A to point B, but, if memory serves me well, it was somewhere in the southwest. Like any other customary drive, dudes were immersed in their music, laptops, books, and/or slumber. As for yours truly, I was tucked away dexterously in the loft when I was abruptly roused by my bowels' vicious jumbling around of the previous late night Denny's excursion. It was only a matter of minutes until the proverbial "shit hit the fan" and I knew I had to get the dudes to pull over immediately or there would be absolute bowel nihilism.

Now, before I dredge any deeper into this story, I want to firmly remind everyone that no matter who you are or what you do with your life, I know you're accustomed to this scenario or at least personally familiar to one similar. Elisha Cuthbert, Connie Chung, Joaquin Phoenix, and even Marty fucking Moose appreciate the spartanism of this condition. They've all had the attack. You can hee-haw it up and solicit endlessly to all you come across that you've never been on the verge of exploding regurgitated indecency into your cotton's, but the fact is you have and you know first hand that this is indeed no laughing matter.
OK, back to the story…
As my guts twisted and thrust the inevitable shit storm toward my constricted caboose, I promptly verbalized my bread basket blitzkrieg and had the van pull over into a remote, dilapidated truck stop off the first available exit. Without hesitation, I sprang from the confines of our mobile home and jetted for relief. As I flung open the gas station's bathroom door, I was alleviated to identify this particular restroom was a one hitter. A one hitter is a bathroom in a gas station with only one functioning commode to be utilized by one person at a time. It was my destiny to be that one person. I secured the door behind me, took a deep breath, and agilely set up shop. To comfort you, the reader, I want it publicly known that nothing escaped into unchartered territory. Meaning, all waste was directed and successfully deposited into its correct facilitated compartment. That being said, my experience in this restroom was of something more prolific and unsanitary than the gruesome act of soiling yourself with the infamous "number two". Was it a clean restroom? Yes. Did I take the standard preventive measures to not catch crabs from the toilet seat? You bet. So, why was it so disgusting and vile? My friends, what I'm about to disclose to you delves deeper into the realm of total destruction of the human psyche than anything else bathroom related.

As I groveled and perspired atop my porcelain throne, I enduringly let my body work out the entirety of its waste decomposition until fully emptied. Though it felt like an eternity, my internal baggage was moving posthaste with meticulous accuracy toward the finish line. Then, as if my mood and mental stability weren't already being tested by my cesspool of a digestive system, the only barrier between me and the gas station shop and its patrons was severed indubitably. A young father in his twenties, holding a five year old boy, nonchalantly props the unlocked bathroom door ajar. Having not detected my suffering on the toilet while bracing the door wide open, Dad, we'll call him, struggles to guide his other 6 year old son, whom stands paralyzed in the gas station due to the wretched sight of me taking a burly shit, into the bathroom with him. In a state of hallucinatory shock, my vocal chords seized and I immediately resorted to def con four bathroom strategies; the helplessly waving of my arms, stamping of my feet, and snapping of my fingers. All to which failed fundamentally. As Dad continues to coax and plead to his stupefied son to enter the bathroom with them, the little dude can't take it anymore and begins to sob profusely. The younger son, cradled in Dad's arms, takes notice of me next, and, within seconds, his little eyes tear up as he's consumed with my horrific exhibition of the releasing of fecal matter. Dad has yet to notice I'm inhabiting the restroom perched on the toilet, and he desperately tussles with the endless endeavor of consoling his blubbering sons. The rest of the gas station's patrons gawk in awe at this ridiculously obscene circumstance while getting a more than necessary glimpse into the darker side of my human functionality.

"Sir?" I said emphatically. "Sir, could you please close the door, sir? Occupied! Sir?" I'll never forget Dad's demeanor when he belatedly realized he had been exposing my semi-nude anatomy to his adolescent children. There's no way to put his facade into words. All I can share with you about it is that I never want to see anything even remotely close to it again. With his boys crying, my self esteem plummeting into the depths of despondency, and my bandmates getting a hearty laugh with no intention of remedying the occurrence, Dad sealed the door and, in essence, sealed out any chance of my mental recovery from the event in my lifetime. In other words, I had been severely defeated.

So, I say to you fellow touring musicians, or anyone for that matter, don't let defeat infiltrate your life on the natural end of things. If you find yourselves on the verge of intestinal collapse far from home, double check to make sure that bathroom door and/or stall is securely locked and quarantined. It's the one action you'll thank yourself for when someone comes a tuggin' and they can't get in. In my defense, I could've sworn I made sure that door was locked, but hey, shit happens even when you're taking shit. Defeat, although prevalent and incalculable, is something that can be prevented, and, with enough surveillance of your surroundings and preparation for the worst, you can beat it. In conclusion, the biggest lesson learned for me that day, and the overall life lesson adhered to on a daily basis in any situation is, no matter what you're doing or what you're going to be doing, don't get caught with your pants down!