The Untippable Privy
Old man Thompson stared through the dirty windowpane at the sun’s last rays filtering through leafless trees. His watery, blue-gray eyes pried into the twilight, brooding and suspicious. He knew they’d come, just like they did every Halloween, but this year it would be different. His new privy was untippable!
Thompson had built the privy the previous summer. He’d attached a five-foot platform in the rear at ground level, then covered it with dirt. While trying to push the privy over, they would have to lift their own weight. As further insurance, he’d pounded hundreds of sharp spikes out through the back wall to puncture their hands. The privy was impossible to tip over.
Continuing his vigil through the window, he clutched a double-barreled shotgun leaning against the doorjamb. He pointed it toward the floor, released the catch, and exposed two gaping barrels. Never taking his eyes from the window, he fumbled in a box on a shelf and grasped two red shells. Deftly fingering them into position, he slipped them into the chambers. A flip of his hand closed the barrels with an ominous click. He stroked the gun. A malicious grin spread across the grizzled stubble on his thin, lined face.
“This’ll give them hoodlums a good scare. Give ‘em a real Halloween trick! One that’ll teach ‘em a lesson they’ll never forget!” He shook the gun at the imaginary foes. “Best get on out t’ the privy before they get here,” he mumbled. Reaching into the box on the shelf, he grabbed a handful of shells and stuffed them into the pocket of his faded, blue denim overalls. “I’ll fix them little devils—rush out at ‘em and blast into the air over their heads. Scare ‘em good! That’ll cure ‘em forever of tipping over another privy.” Chuckling aloud, he kicked the door open. It swung wide, the spring groaning from abuse. He strode to the stalwart privy and entered.
Inside the dark building, Thompson, grinning smugly, seated himself to wait for the enemy, positive it would withstand all threats of being tipped over. He propped the gun against the wall, then fumbled in his shirt pocket for his tobacco pouch and papers. Cupping the paper into a trough, he filled it with tobacco, then twiddled the paper into a misshapen cylinder and licked the edge to seal it. He dug a wooden match out of his pocket and raked it down the wall. It popped and blazed to life. He waited a moment for the flame to settle, touched it to the cigarette, then pitched the match down the toilet hole. He leaned back against the wall to enjoy his smoke.
* * *
From the shadows of a grove of cottonwoods several hundred yards away, Bobby, Jim, Earl, and brothers Ervin and Danny, watched Thompson enter the privy. They giggled and jabbed each other with their elbows. They’d waited a whole year for this night. Throughout the summer they’d spied on Thompson while he labored at building the privy.
“Bet he can’t hit nothin’ with that old gun,” Bobby sneered.
“What’s to worry about when he’s inside and we’re outside?” Ervin asked.
Apprehensive, Danny said, “Maybe he drilled holes in the back of the toilet to poke the gun through.”
“Don’t be stupid! He ain’t got no holes in the back,” Bobby snapped.
Jim confronted him, “I ‘spose you went up there and looked.”
Earl whispered hoarsely, “Quit arguing. C’mon, let’s go.”
Bobby cautioned, “Wait ‘til it gets dark.” He turned to face the small army. “Thompson just thinks he’s got us where he wants us. Ain’t no toilet in Browning we can’t tip over. And we’re gonna prove it tonight!”
A chorus of laughter and agreements followed, “Yeah!”, “Right!”, “We’ll show him!”, “Timber!”, “CRASH!”
They lingered in the trees, milling about until darkness conquered the twilight. A wintry chill swept down from Glacier Park’s peaks. The breeze stirred piles of dead leaves, sending them rustling and swirling into the cold October night. A full moon hovered above the horizon, peeking through filmy, drifting clouds. Coyotes howled greetings to one another from the surrounding prairie. Their mournful cries disturbed a few dogs who answered them.
“C’mon,” Bobby said, and began slinking forward.
Trembling with excitement, the pack emerged from the trees, each carrying a fifteen-foot teepee pole. They hunched low to make themselves less visible in the ghostly moon light.
Keeping in the shadows of trees and buildings, they crept toward the challenge. Wary of unseen phantoms, they shushed each other as their feet crunched through the dead grass and leaves.
Ervin farted.
“Ol’ Thompson’ll smell us comin’,” Earl joked.
Nervous titters followed.
The clouds dissipated. Moonlight dribbled through the leafless trees, illuminating their stealthy advance. Their hot, excited breaths vaporized eerily upward into the frosty air. With suspicious glances, they probed the shadows and stopped often to listen. They were ready for flight if they were discovered. Each step closer to the privy increased their tension.
Out in the street, a barking dog chased a rider on horseback. The boys jerked back into the shadow of a small building. In their haste to hide, they bumped into each other, tangling their teepee poles.
Their cursing and the clanking poles disturbed a flock of roosting chickens inside the coop. Screeching hysterically, they flew out the door and into the midst of the skittish boys. Feathers flew as the boys flailed their arms, defending themselves from the flapping flock.
After they had recovered, Bobby glanced furtively at his jittery followers. He whispered, “Ole Thompson must have heard that. Let’s wait a while before we move in.”
A few minutes later, after regrouping and regaining their courage, they resumed their advance on the privy. The target loomed closer. It sure looked big and heavy, but they were confident of their strength and technique.
Using his free hand, Bobby motioned them to stop ten feet behind the privy. He whispered to the gang, “On the count of three jam the poles against the eaves and shove. When it goes over, it’ll fall on the door and lock Thompson in. Ready?”
Snickering, the boys signified they were with thumbs-up signs. Excitement tingled in their bellies. They were hardly able to restrain themselves from giggling. Jockeying for advantageous positions at the rear of the privy, they stumbled over each other. Finally, in place, they waited for the order, poised as if on the starting line of a race.
Using his arm, Bobby pumped it up and down to signify the one, two, three count. They lurched forward, jammed the poles against the eaves, and threw their weight against the tip-proof privy. They grunted and shoved; their feet slipped and slid in the dirt, but the privy stood its ground, unmoving.
***
Inside, Thompson waited, confident he’d finally thwarted the pranksters. He almost laughed out loud when he heard them charge. He decided to delay just a minute longer before he ran outside and blasted them. Let ‘em work off some of that energy first.
Seconds passed without any noticeable movement of the privy. Then, slowly the buried platform scraped loose with a grinding groan. The privy shuddered, but Thompson still didn’t believe it would tip. It tilted slowly, like a sinking ship pointing its bow upward before sliding under the waves. Suddenly, the building lurched forward, gaining momentum as it toppled. Thompson lost his balance and fell in a heap against the door. The privy capsized, locking him in.
“Damn you no-good hooligans!” Thompson bellowed. “You ain’t gonna get away that easy!” He scrambled to a regain his balance. The shotgun went off. BOOM! It shattered the quiet and the back side of the privy, which was now the top. Wood splinters and nails flew into the air.
“Let’s get outa here,” screamed the boys in unison. They dropped their poles and ran to the left and right.
Thompson regained his composure. He poked the gun barrel through a toilet hole. A fiery blast splayed into the night. BOOM! It illuminated the underside of the privy, exposing a gaping, black hole in the ground. He yanked the gun back, flipped open the barrels and emptied the smoking chambers, then jammed two more shells into the barrels. “You dirty little whelps, I’ll get you for this!” he yelled.
Old Thompson cussed and shot. BOOM! BOOM! Then a short silence while he reloaded. BOOM! BOOM!
***
The boys scattered, stumbling, laughing, screaming and listening to the shots.
Tonight they would go home, triumphant and unscathed, knowing they’d tipped the “the untippable privy.” Tomorrow they would relive the antic, which, as the years passed, would become more dangerous and exciting as they told and retold the harrowing tale.
