Summer Stalks
Each summer, my dad grew eight rows of corn in our suburban backyard.
Big tall stalks sprouted up like a golden forest. In July, right
before kindergarten began, I wandered into the corn and got lost.
I pretended it was where I lived.
One day I squatted down in between the rows. I brushed some dirt
off my red toecap Keds. I started bouncing up and down in that position,
my bottom hitting against my heels. Slow and then fast and back to
slow. Picking at my chipped Fairy Pink nail polish, a tickle began
to tingle between my legs. I dropped my hands to the soil and smiled,
looking up at the blue sky broken up by the shadows of the corn.
I was alone. My parents weren’t around. They never checked
in. The tickle rose up my belly and around my back. That tickle was
naughty. I liked it… a lot. I’d get in big trouble if
I did what it wanted. I wanted to do it.
I did it. I pulled down my shorts and blue flowered panties and pooped
in the aisle between the tidy rows, wiping myself with the corn leaves
and giggling. This was a really good secret. This world was mine.
A butterfly flitted around my head. It saw me do it and I liked that
too. I could barely wait to get back the next day for a repeat pooping.
I looked forward to doing it from the moment I awoke. Eating my Cheerios
and slurping down the blue-ish non-fat-milk-sugar at the bottom of
my bowl, I waited for my dad to leave for work and my mom to busy
herself.
When I got to the corn, I played in the rows, telling my friends
in there about my different rules for Corn Town, waiting for the
urge for what seemed liked forever. Then I let loose again.
This lasted for about two weeks.
On and off I’d hear my dad saying things to my mom and the
neighbor lady about the poop. How it didn’t look like the dog’s
business, or any other animal he’d seen around our place. I
took pleasure in their poop talk. I made them talk about number two.
They thought I didn’t understand what they were talking about.
It was electrifying to know something they didn’t know. I imitated
their finger to the face and arched brow wonder.
They never caught me.
Frayn Masters writing can be found in the anthology Mountain Man Dance Moves: The McSweeney's Book of Lists, Spork magazine and the Hobart website.