A Million Inches Delicious

In late December of last year, Nebraska Senator Ben Nelson penned the “Nebraska Compromise,” a political deal that secured the senator’s necessary vote on a massive health care package in exchange for the federal government picking up the full share of Nebraska’s cost for expanding Medicaid, a federal-state program that provides medical coverage for low-income Americans. It was the equivalent of a 20-billion-dollar-bribe, paid out over ten years by every non-Nebraskan American citizen, just so Senator Nelson might put his name on a political bill that would end up helping poor people. As it turns out, my dad is one of these non-Nebraskan American citizens. And he was not at all happy about this.

As it also turned out, I was planning a cross-country road trip for early January, an excursion that would take me from my New Mexican homeland to my current residence in Wisconsin, and every state in between. As it turns out, Nebraska is one of these states.

On the night before I left for Wisconsin, my parents and I were sitting in the bar of a fancy local restaurant, nibbling fancy appetizers while watching the BCS Championship game on a fancy television. A commercial break roused by dad back to full consciousness, and he grabbed my shoulder. “I want you to do me a favor,” he said, turning my stomach into tinfoil in reflexive response, “You’re driving through Nebraska, right?” I nodded, on guard. “Well here’s what I want you to do. As soon as you get to Nebraska, I want you to pull over and take a big steaming shit right on the side of the road. Right in the middle of one of those piss-yellow cornfields. Right out in the open.” I grinned a little at the offer, mostly because the phrase “big steaming shit” was so unexpected and funny, but even though my dad was grinning, too, I could tell this was not just some casual joke. “I want the cops to call me,” he said. “I’m serious. If I get a phone call from the cops saying, ‘Yes, Mr. Taylor? We have your son here at the Omaha City Penitentiary. We caught him doing something unspeakable at a Nebraskan rest stop,’ if I get a phone call like that, you’re back in the will.” My dad had just removed me from the will an hour earlier after I bought him a Stella Artois instead of the local amber on tap. Beer is serious business to my dad. I had thought public evacuation was, too.

“Are you serious?” I asked, a bit disappointed in myself for even entertaining the idea. But the game was back on, and my dad was a zombie. I turned to my mom. “Is he serious? He isn’t serious. Right? He isn’t serious.” She shook her head. “I never know with him,” she said, smiling cautiously. Quick touchdown to a commercial break brought my dad back to us. “So you’ll do it?” he asked, as if my defecation on Nebraska really was some sort of favor he needed, some sort of chore to be done. I was amused and shaken. “Really? You really want me to do this?” My dad tilted his head so that our eyes met over the rim of his glasses, “Someone has to teach that asshole senator a lesson, right?” I turned back to my mom. She shrugged and took another sip of Stella, “I guess he’s serious.” This was ludicrous. Of all people, my dad had to know what I was willing to do, what I was capable of. He had to know what kind of ears his words were falling on. And yet he was serious. I looked down at the table. “We’ve come a long way, baby,” I said, speaking only to myself.

I called my dad from the road the next morning, having just spent the night in Denver and now preparing to enter the vast empty timesuck that was the state of Nebraska. “Remember your mission,” he said, doing his best M impression, “and text me once you’ve completed it. Good luck.” For the next four hours of the drive, I slowly allowed myself to wander down the path of hypotheticals, a plexiglass trail of humor and uncertainty that had led me to the most trying and imperative times in my life. But this time the path was different, for the one thing that was consistently hidden at the end of it—my dad’s reaction—was now right out in the open, was the actual impetus to the act itself. This was no longer about getting a laugh, living up to an image, or buying a Bob Dylan album. This was about making a political statement and pleasing my dad, two purposes more foreign to my anus than chewing. This was about taking a shit in public and being proud of myself for doing it. My sphincter fluttered expectantly.

I emptied my bowels in the parking lot of a King Buffet in Kearney, Nebraska (pronounced “Carny”), smack in the middle of the state my father despised. It was the aftermath of a crêpe-wrapped breakfast burrito, and it burned with a deep and introspective orange, three globular petals resting like sunsets on the pale Nebraskan snow. It was an easy deposit, as quick and quiet as the first had been. And it was steaming. I cleaned myself with a pack of wet wipes I had brought along and pulled up my pants, sheathing my weapon just in time for two heavy teenage girls to exit the buffet and walk right past me. Once they were out of sight, I turned back to the turds. I stared at them, freezing the image in my mind, and whispered, “Fuck you, Gerry.” Then I peed nearby and ran back to the car.

Text message. To: Dad. Sent: January 9, 5:55 pm:
{Mission Accomplished!}

Text message. From: Dad. Stored: January 10, 8:02pm:
{MAKES A MOM N DAD PROUD!}

This is the only conversation my dad and I have had about the Nebraska stunt, and it is the only confirmation I will ever need. This is my proof that I am back in the will. This is my proof that I have done something good.

Last Friday, Senator Nelson asked for the Nebraska Compromise deal to be withdrawn and replaced with a provision treating all states equally. Nebraska will now pull their own weight in expanding Medicaid coverage. Non-Nebraskan citizens of America, you are welcome.

the end.