I guess we all have secret lives – those tiny little crevices in our past that we don’t bring up anymore.  Rumors of the old you that brings a shudder when it comes up in a conversation. For some, it’s an unflattering hairstyle, for others a phase when they wore those giant raver pants, and sometimes it may be a former career or obsession. I’m guilty of having evidence of a past life out there; in fact there are all sorts of bits of it out there on the internet. I bristle when I look back and see photos of me with bad hair or blog posts about shitty bands that I used to be into.  But also there are plenty of pictures of my ex-wife and I.

Before I get too deep into this post, let me just say that I am not trying to be cursing or rude or even disparaging about my ex, she is a nice person and I think we made a mistake. Each of us were not the people that the other person thought we were and it unfortunately caused a lot of pain to happen. We rarely see each other in the sort of social situations that one would see an ex in; like bars, restaurants or parties, but when we do it’s fairly cordial and always awkward.  That’s why doing any sort of banking is stressful for me.

I’ll admit it: I’m lazy. I guess my brain just can’t tolerate the minutia of the tedious things that adult life throws at us – case in point: banking.  I have an account at regional bank. Sure, it’s not a credit union, but I still feel okay about keeping my money in a (semi)-local institution. I’ve had the account for almost eight years now simply because I don’t want to be bothered with changing to a different house of money. I keep feeling like maybe I should, but I don’t. When I lived in Asheville this was especially awkward because if I needed to go to the bank, sitting at a desk inside was my ex-wife.

For a while it was awkward to the point where I didn’t want to even go into the bank while I knew she was there. I waited for the time when she always took her lunch break and I would try to go then. I ran in and ran out. I played dumb going through the drive-up window, saying things like oh drat, I forgot my deposit slip, like I was some silver-haired granny that I knew the tellers bent their ultra-strict rules for. It worked.

Then my relationship with my wife began, and with it came a move out of Asheville. What I gave up in being having my friends and family close by I made up for slightly in having the ability to not have to go to bank at a place where the employees chipped in and bought us five place settings for dishes at our wedding. There wouldn’t be any awkward moments if the new lady came into the bank with me. It was like I was just another customer at the bank.

Then they put my ex’s picture on the bank’s website.

(I’ll give you a hint as to which person it is: it’s not the one who just sat on an aardvark.)

Now, when I go to do anything concerning my bank, I’m greeted by my ex. This is not good.  It’s not that I find her hideous or anything like that; it’s just a reminder of an older life, a life that I’ve grown unaccustomed to.  I’m sure that it’s a little bit weird for her if she stumbles across a comment on Facebook by one of our two mutual friends. I bet she looks back at the time we shared with a million regrets, and while I hate that she feel that way, I completely understand.  But still, she’s not seeing my face every time she’s trying to figure out what’s for dinner.

I’m aware that I could do something to fix this uncomfortable situation by changing banks, but that is hardly embarrassing or self-deprecating enough to warrant an entry on The Bugg Blog, now is it?  Instead I thought of the bizarre power plays that customers at the bank pulled with my ex, and how she came home raving about insane customers and how the bank would be over backwards to please them. I remember shaking my head over dinner and thinking man, I’ll never be one of those dick heads. Now was finally my chance to pull a dick move like that.

I walked into the bank this afternoon, filling out a withdrawal slip.  As I came in through the double doors I felt mighty, I felt strong, and I was full of the righteous indignation that I imagine the guys raising the flag on Iwo Jima. I was going to make them change the header image on their website.  I held my head high and thought about what I was going to say, and then I conducted my business.

With forty dollars placed in my hand and a receipt from my teller, a blonde girl named Farrah with the sort of chubby redneck-cute that permeates the rural areas of this area, I was almost ready to go. The teller asked me if I needed anything else.

Actually Farrah I wanted to ask someone about the website, I said.

You’re interested in online banking, she asked.

Well, not really. I mean yes I do a lot of online banking, but I don’t know if I’d call it an interest. I’m interested in World War II, comic books, The Von Erich-Freebird Rivalry and a million other things, but I don’t know if I’d say that online banking is an interest, I said.

Did I mention that this is pretty much how the conversation went verbatim? Yes, I actually say these things.

Oh okay Mr. Bugg, she said and then asked me if I needed help with the website.

No, not at all. I was just wondering if you could change some things on the site, I said.

Well the website was just updated, so you’re going to find that a lot of the things on the site that you are looking for are in all new places, she said.

Oh no, I can find everything rather well, the new design is sleek and it makes everything feel cleaner – not that the site was dirty or anything. Could you imagine that, a dirty bank website, I said. I even laughed for a second. Farrah was nonplussed.

So you want us to change something with the website, but you like the website, she asked.

Exactly, I said while pointing at her.

I’m not following you, Mr. Bugg. What is it that you’d like for me to change, she asked. Her voice seemed a bit more tense.

Well if you go to the site, and look you’ll see a picture of my ex-wife on there, I said.

She smiled and laughed. You’re so silly, she said.

No I’m being serious, go to the site, I said.

She furiously loaded up a browser and went to the bank’s website. There sat the offensive header.

That’s what you have a problem with, she asked.

Yes, that picture right there. It’s my ex-wife, I said.

Farrah smiled. That’s not you’re ex-wife, she said.

It is.

They probably buy these pictures from some other website like they are called – what’s that word? Clip art. This is just clip art, she said.

No, her name is NAME REDACTED and she works at the NAME REDACTED branch, I said.

By this time, another teller walked over and looked over Farrah’s shoulder.

Oh my god that is her, she said laughing.  Teller number two turned around and told the drive-up window operator that the company used photographs of employees as the main image for the website.

You mean I could be a model, drive-up window lady said before busting out laughing.

Wait a minute – you ladies never use the bank’s website, I asked. It seemed weird that these were employees of the bank and this all seemed so new to them.

Oh no, I use NAME REDACTED. My husband and I have been with them for years, teller number two said.

Oh okay, well that’s weird. I said.

Well Mr. Bugg, is there anything else I can do for you this afternoon, Farrah asked. I could tell that she wanted to scoot me out the door so she could go back to doing whatever it is that bank tellers do when they aren’t helping customers.

No I’m serious, can you see about getting her face off of the website, I said.

Was it a bad break-up? Farrah asked.

No, it’s not that. It was a good break-up. I’m happier now, she seems happier also, from what I can tell. I am remarried and I love my wife more than anything and NAME REDACTED is dating a guy who I’m told is really great and looks a lot like Christopher Guest from The Princess Bride, I said.

Oh I love that movie: Assssssssssssssss Yoouuuuuu Wiiiiiish! Farrah said.

I remember that movie, teller number two said.

Well it is a good one, I said.

You are the brute squad, the chubby drive-up window operator yelled out.

Exactly, I said.

Well Mr. Bugg that was really funny. Thank you for coming in today, Farrah said.

No wait, I said. At this point I felt like Ralphie being shot down the slide in A Christmas Story, and this was my defiant moment where I stopped gravity and DEMANDED a Red Rider BB Gun from Santa.

If you don’t get somebody to change the image, I’m going to take my – I wasn’t sure how much I had in the bank. I looked down at my receipt and this is what it said:

I’m going to take my three twenty-three elsewhere, I said.

For a moment, there was silence. The parade of quoting The Princess Bride had ended. Farrah stared me down like she was Jack Palance in Shane.  Then she spoke.

Okay Mr. Bugg, she said. But it wasn’t a positive okay. She raised her shoulders and made her front teeth stick out. She said it in a deep voice. This was her calling me a retard.

I pictured asking for my three dollars and change right then and there from the teller and taking it to another bank, but then I thought about all of the paperwork that I’d have to fill out at both my current bank to close the account and at the new bank to open a new account. I thought about how much time that would take and then I thought about my dogs at home and the betrayed looks upon their faces when I leave and don’t take them with me. It all piled upon me and I decided to leave well enough alone.

Just kidding, I said and then laughed, playing off the whole encounter.  Farrah laughed too, thinking that this was another of my elaborate and unfunny jokes.

I paid the water bill and then stopped at the store on the way home, back to my current life. I thought about the picture on the site and how I got a little bent out of shape over a picture on the lading page of a website. I thought about it a lot, and then the wife came home.

How was your day, she asked.

It was good. Better now, I said.

My old life was behind me. I still see pictures of it, but I don’t look at them as much.

My latest adventure started off the way that most adventures do: with the death of my freelance writing career. I continue to be at a loss trying to figure out why something that I’m (supposedly) so good at brings me no money. I asked myself if I could do better, and tried to. I asked editors and got barely any response, because that’s what editors do. I asked a writer friend whose work has appeared in tons of magazines and he told me a pretty harsh truth; that music writers like myself line up like airplanes at O’Haire in a snowstorm, and editors pick the ones they like and leave the others freezing in the cold. It was a harsh and scary.  Right about then another friend told me to embrace my blog for a little while. Use it to write about bands, but also stretch it out and show my versatility as a writer – show people that I could write news, show them that I could write about other things besides rock and roll.

It was with that in mind that I decided on a cold day almost two weeks ago that I would review a local restaurant.  The wife was out of town and I was craving Mexican food, so I decided to find a Mexican restaurant in town that I’d never been to and write about the experience. I settled upon Maria’s Mexican Pueblo in Waynesville, NC.

From the outside, Maria’s looks like every “diner-style” Mexican restaurant that I’ve ever been to. Everyone knows the rather banal places that I’m referring to: they all have the same menu, the same numbered combination plates, the Speedy Gonzalez lunch special, and the chips and salsa sitting at your table to fill you up pre-dinner. That’s what I expected from the beer-and-calendar adorned walls of Maria’s. But this wasn’t a typical fajita-slinging joint: this place is a bit of a dining experience.

An older lady greeted me at the door and told me to sit anywhere that I like. I chose a small table a bit away from the other diners in the restaurant. The music was low and there was a noticeable stillness about the place that made me afraid to cough or speak or move.  The older lady approached me and took my order. I chose the special and she told me that it’d be a few minutes.

I watched as she did a little dance: she took my order and the orders of the only other table in the restaurant, made sure our drinks were filled and then headed to the kitchen. There she bustled around and prepared all of our meals single-handedly. It wasn’t as though things were laid out for her cafeteria-style either. She seemed to be cooking and readying our entrees one-by-one.  It was within fifteen minutes that she brought my meal out to me: a steak burrito loaded with jack cheese, smoked black beans, pico de gallo and rice wrapped in a spinach tortilla. The steak was tender and juicy with just enough spices added to it. Everything was superb.  When my waitress/cook arrived back at my table to check on me, I told her that I felt bad that I was ordering so much stuff and she was the only person there to help everyone.

It’s okay, I do it this way during the day. I’m one of those people who can’t stop moving around, she said. She laughed and went to greet another couple who were walking in and then refill the iced tea glasses that sat at a table nearby.  I continued eating my burrito. The thing was large, but every bite was delicious. I wanted to savor every bit and really pretend that I was a food writer, but I was far too hungry and this was far too good. Then something happened that changed everything.

Taking a small break from the burrito, I dipped a chip into some of the salsa. I can’t believe that I haven’t mentioned the salsa. When my server placed a bowl of the stuff down onto my table I wasn’t that enthused. It seemed watery with a few chunks of tomato placed in it. Then upon dipping a chip in, I was welcomed to a fragrant and spicy world where my taste buds were Pilipino citizens and this salsa was General McArthur returning to save the day. It was so good. Sometimes the heat burned my tongue, and other times the sweetness of the tomato balanced it all out. It was a magical salsa experience. I ate the chip and thought about how I’d describe the salsa, because words failed me. I was writing tiny little ideas and adjectives down on a piece of paper I’d produced from my wallet, and yet nothing in my head was really letting me convey to experience of this salsa. I decided, and this is the part that I regret, to sniff the salsa to see if I could get an idea of the ingredients of the stuff.

That’s when I sneezed, loudly.

Usually a sneeze just sort of happens. I’ve probably sneezed a million times in my life, and it’s no big deal. Dry sneezes are just sort of loud and wet sneezes are just sort of loud with a wetness that one needs a napkin or Kleenex or sleeve for. This was a dry sneeze that made my whole body contract and release. It was violent and loud and caused the entire restaurant to notice me breaking its eerie quiet. A Mexican ballad played quietly on the stereo, indifferent to my interruption.  That’s when I felt it: wetness in the back of my pants.

My stomach had rumbled before I went into the restaurant. I didn’t think anything of it because at thirty-four years-old I feel like I know my body rather well. My body, to me is rather banal. I know what upsets it and what soothes it. So a slight tremor in my stomach before I eat a nice lunch wasn’t a big deal. Or so I thought.

Now I was panicking. I had a weird sinking feeling that somewhere immediately after the sneeze – in that split second between the Ah and the Choo – I’d pooped myself.  I got up from the table and walked in that weird clenched-ass walk that one does when they’ve soiled themselves towards the men’s room.  I walked into the bathroom and set about trying to figure out what happened.

Without getting into the details, it was a disaster on par with a pontoon boat sinking instead of the Titanic that it felt like. I immediately locked the little bathroom door and set about cleaning myself up as best I could.  There was one thing for certain – I needed to get rid of my underpants and get out of the restaurant as soon as I could.

The wastebasket that was beside the sink wasn’t a big industrial-sized depository that would be capable of holding and concealing my underpants. Instead it was a smaller wastebasket, not unlike the one that I have in my bathroom at home. There was no way that I could place something in that without having anyone else notice. I didn’t want that dear lady who cooked my food and brought me a nice glass of water when I needed it to have to deal with this.  I was panicking and didn’t know what to do. So I had to tap into my inner MacGyver and fabricate either a wastebasket or crude diaper to get out of this restaurant in.  I had no wood or tape, but the restaurant was stocked with an ample supply of toilet paper. I created a large pad of tissue that when placed between my ass and my underwear would get me out of the place. With this in place, I walked out of the bathroom and back into the restaurant.

I’d like to think that I looked normal emerging from the one-person bathroom but I’m sure that I looked insane. My head glistened with sweat and I still walked with my ass clenched, but now I had a big two-ply ass-pad sticking out. In the mirror across from me I looked like Arsenio Hall – square shoulders and a big ass.  Instead of giving it up for the Dog Pound like Mr. Hall did, I sat awkwardly on the seat – one cheek resting in the chair and the other dangling precariously in the ether between the seat and the ground. It was there that I waited for my check.

My waitress lady was busy, and those minutes felt like decades. I know that some form of that expression gets used a lot, but seriously, try sitting in an increasingly busy restaurant with a dirty load in your pants, wearing a crudely-made Charmin maxi-pad and then have to be patient and tell me how time passes. I’d rather sit in the DMV next to three families than endure what I had to while waiting to pay my bill.

Finally she brought me the check. I waddled up to the register and she asked how everything was. It was good, I said and it was. The meal was wonderful. I’d recommend going to Maria’s Mexican Pueblo again to anyone – it wasn’t the meal that caused this, it was my body acting out-of-the-ordinary and me not listening to it that was to blame.  I paid my bill and just before heading to my car an idea hit me.

I went back into the bathroom and took the bag out of the wastebasket. Underneath it in true restaurant tradition, was a spare trashcan liner. Every restaurant I worked at did this in case of needing a quick change during peak business, I suppose. Now I took advantage of it. I took the empty bag out, placed my TP Diaper in the toilet and then took my soiled underwear and placed them in the trash bag. With a flush and a tucking of the trash bag in my jacket sleeve all of the evidence was destroyed.

I walked out of the place, thanking the nice lady as I passed her again and got into my car. Along the way home I stopped at a small park where I saw a trash can and threw my underpants away. It was finally over.

I started not to type this out. I started to pretend that this sad and embarrassing chapter in the life of Jason Bugg never happened, but I figured that someone would get a good laugh out of it. But I also knew that eventually someone like my sister would bring this up and I’d have to explain it to everyone. So there it was; the story about how my body doesn’t listen to me and how I ruined a nice dinner for myself. Feel free to laugh about it now, I’ll understand.  But now instead of being mortified that something like this happened to me, I own it. I control my embarrassment. I think.