These words mark my first content as an Odyssey creator. I asked my editor what I should write for my first piece, and she said, “I couldn't give a shit, so long as it’s good.” Naturally, this reminded me of several questions I’ve been pondering for quite some time: what does it mean to shit? Does shit have an inherent value or quality? If so, how has this quality changed over time, and why?

For my first Odyssey article, I’m going to venture back several months to the beginning of these ruminations. I’m going to tell you the story of the events that unfolded in a gas station bathroom in rural Wyoming, discuss what this meant for me, as well as what it may mean for you and the rest of society.

I had been driving with my uncle across the West for days before his incontinence brought us to that fateful rest-stop in Wyoming. The stop functioned as a gas station, and its little mart had been decked out with a Subway, which, to anyone experienced in traveling across the continental United States, screams high society.

We stopped, individually locking the cab doors of our clunky F150, and stretched our legs as we moved inside. The interior reminded me vaguely of a casino: the fluorescent lights, the sterile smell, the oppressive collection of merchandise, and the glass cage of employees responsible for guarding the chips (or in this case, the tobacco, condoms, and little lottery tickets).

My uncle made a b-line for the men’s room, which stood right at the threshold between the bleak grey tile of the mart and the more artistically inspiring mud-brown tile of the Subway. I didn’t bother to check if the bathroom was a private; instead, I hovered around the fidget spinners and bouncy balls until he was done. I could wait, after all. And after driving with him for days, experience told me maybe I was better off waiting outside.

He came out after a minute or two, cinching his belt and smiling, chin up. He pressed on to the Subway, winking at me. We both knew Subway was the grisly promise of another stop like this in a few more hours. But hey, we were on the road, what choice did we have?

I put down the trinket with which I had been fiddling and pushed open the door to the bathroom.

To my surprise, I quickly discovered the bathroom was definitely not private. As the door swung open, I nearly stepped on the toes of a man in a football jersey on his way out. He nodded like I had done him a solid in opening the door for him, and squeezed his way out.

Assessing the situation took me a minute; whenever you don’t get what you’re expecting, it takes a moment for your brain to rebuild the scene around you, to match your expectations and your reality. This is why I initially thought there were still two men in the bathroom. I could say it was because I had a sense for the energetic presence of two other souls, but it really just boiled down to my surprise; for example, it took me a few seconds to realize there was a mirror next to me…I had only been staring slack-jawed at myself.

Okay, it's down to one, I thought. I can wait.

I don’t take shits when other people are around. I don’t want them looking at my underwear when I pull my pants down. I don't need Joe Blow to know I'm wearing Hanes today: that just isn't something that serves a function for either of us, him knowing what I'm wearing to secure my genitalia, and me knowing that a perfect stranger knows and can visualize it. I don’t want them to hear me toot as I’m pushing. Don’t want them to smell what even I think is rank. Don’t want them to be waiting for me to finish. Don’t want them to realize how entirely vulnerable I am, sitting there with my pants down.

I opted to go into the stall and wait for the man at the urinal to leave. I took three steps toward the stall, his back turned to me, and I leaned my hand into the door as I walked.

Remember what I said just a second ago about your brain taking a moment to rebuild a scene? Sometimes this works in your favor: I opened the door, hitching for a moment on its finicky, half-way lock, but before I could even make sense of what I was seeing, I backed out and pulled the door behind me, nearly yelling, “Oh, sooooooorry!”

In an empty bathroom stall, you can expect a porcelain toilet, a TP dispenser, maybe even a guard rail or some art. But you shouldn’t expect a blob of bright yellow. And I did not expect a blob of bright yellow.

Back out in the general public of the rest of the bathroom, I stood dumbfounded. The door wasn’t locked! I thought. He’s going to come out now. I can hear him fussing around. At this point, the man at the urinal had turned around, zipped up, and walked to the sink. I followed suit, thinking that maybe my business in washing my hands would somehow throw the victim of my invasion off my scent.

The man washing his hands next to me watched me in the mirror. He frowned sympathetically, as if to say, “It happens to the best of us, pal.”

And that’s when I heard it.

The noise started small, like the squeak of a mouse or some other small animal…but steadily grew into a harsh whine. Initially, I couldn’t place the sound. When it finally came together in my mind, I couldn’t bring myself to look.

I was hearing the door swinging open again. Swinging so slow it ground against its hinges, crying at the overwhelming embarrassment of the situation.

What have I done to this poor kid?

Silence. Nothing. No movement, no sound. The other man’s sink had stopped, and he stopped wiping his hands. We faced the door together. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him turn and look at me.

I looked at him. He looked at me. I took a deep breath and took my first step toward the door, hand outstretched, calming a volatile beast. I stood like this until, at last, I saw the yellow again.

A kid stood there, no more than 15, a yellow sweatshirt pulled down over his pasty legs, hands pinched between his thighs. He reached out, grabbed the door, and made to close it, but not before looking up and meeting the eyes of his ego assailant and his newfound accomplice not three steps over his shoulder.

Defeat sank in this boy’s eyes. And in the space between us I knew a trauma was born which would live in him until the day he died. I would have said sorry again, but at that point in time, an apology felt like adding insult to injury, as futile as an apology to keys already flushed down the toilet. So I wiped my hands, tossed the towel onto the pile in the trash, and opened the door.

I imagined my accomplice turning to me, asking, “Didn’t you need to shit? You have to stay in here and shit, otherwise opening the door will have been in vain!” But I left before he had the chance.

I held my own until after my uncle and I crossed the border into the next state. If you’re out there, Yellow Kid: just know that everybody poops. I understand you, and I think everyone does. Which is why I don't feel the need to include anthropological studies, cited evidence, or statistics. Like a five dollar footlong bubbling up in your gut, the embarrassment of shitting in public is something we just know. Even though it may feel as such, it isn’t the death of you.