(sh)It Girl.

Everyone is someone's _____ person. You've heard the term "It Girl", well, I'm someone's shIt Girl.  It's not as awful as it sounds.  It is, however, totally fucking cringetacular.

Years ago in the 90s, Auntie lived in New York City. Giuiliani had been working his magic for a number of years, crime was way down, you could walk around in Central Park and Times Square without being mugged, and that homeless guy with the frightening and perpetually oozing leg wound finally stopped shitting in a box in front of my Upper West Side apartment. NYC was absolutely fabulous in so many ways.

I worked a respectable day job at which I was blessed with my own office (this, in my early 20s!), a lovely Upper West Side location on clean, gentrified, up-and-coming Columbus Avenue.  By night, I worked at a nightclub up the block, owned by some of the real estate brokers I worked with.  I don't really remember all of the details around meeting Sol - (may or may not be his real name), but he was adorable, fresh-faced, and something like five years younger than I.  We made plans to hang out that weekend. 

Saturday came, and I did the usual furious cleaning, primping, etc. of my studio apartment and myself. Last on the list before taking a shower and getting all dolled up was cleaning out the cat box.  Living in the city, things are done a bit differently than in more rural areas.  Having old-school industrial toilets that you could likely flush a racoon down afforded me the luxury of disposing of the cat doodles in the toilet and simply flushing them away to the vast unknown world of the NYC sewer system.

I was showered, prettied up, ready for my date with the adorable young man.  The buzzer rang right on time and Sol came up, we exchanged the usual pleasantries and such and headed out for a movie, a walk in Central Park, perhaps some ice cream, I don't completely recall.  The chemistry between us became apparent during the movie, which was one of the typically-90s Rom-Coms with the usual cast of characters - I think Katie Holmes (pre-Cruise and Scientology) was in it and that other guy there - Freddie Prinz, I think? It was predictably adorable, and it set an appropriate mood for a first date.  How adorbs!!

After a lovely day of doing first-datey things, we returned to my apartment.  There were sparks, and was it getting warm in here or was it just me? Or him? If I had to guess, there might have been a glass of wine or two involved - I don't really remember.  At some point, Sol excused himself to use the loo.  I waited patiently, a bit of that first date pink blush glowing on my cheeks, demurely awaiting whatever was to come next.  He was so cute! And I knew he was interested; the signals were all there - the "I know this is our first date, but omg, I don't want it to end!!".  We had been excitedly discussing plans for the upcoming holiday (one of the Summer ones) weekend and things to come thereafter.  I heard the door open, and Sol emerged from the loo.  He had the strangest look on his face - as if he had seen a ghost, or witnessed a murder or...something.  He mumbled some barely audible stream of words and abruptly left my apartment.  The burn marks on the floor for how quickly he peeled the fuck out of the place are probably still there, some 20-something years later.

In the days following, I left a voice mail or two (no more than that - I certainly wasn't desperate in any way, and I found it odd how abruptly he had left, but was curious as to why). I kept going over the day in my head - had I said something, done something wrong? I know I definitely hadn't come on too strongly - I was at least more experienced at the game than to have done that. I wracked my brain trying to figure out just where things went wrong - where things went from that adrenaline and hormone-fueled early, mutual attraction to total and complete radio silence.

If you've ever lived in a major metropolis older than say 150 years or so, you're familiar with the peccadilloes of  old-timey plumbing inherent in buildings over a certain age.  You're also likely familiar with the negative consequences of flushing your toilet right before getting into the shower.  If you're in the market to have your skin slough off from 240 degree water, then sure - go ahead and flush.  If you, like me, enjoy living a life free from 2nd or 3rd degree burns, you wait until after you've showered to flush that toilet.  I waited.  Too long.

If Edvard Munch's "The Scream" could be anthropomorphized into a real life scenario, this was it. In a moment of absolute and complete horror, I realized what had happened to cause this boy to run - not walk - the fuck out of my place, at breakneck speed, never to be seen or heard from again.  I had put the contents of the cat box, the cat shit, in the fucking toilet before getting into the shower, and I had neglected to flush the contents down thereafter.

Sol never returned a phone call or a text or email (or whatever it might have been at the time). I never heard a word from him, nor ever saw him again.  But I knew that we'd always and forever have a special connection, if in no other place but his dreams (nightmares, honestly).  I would forever be known as the "Shit Girl".  I felt it deep in my soul; I knew.

I don't know whether he ever told another soul about this -- I suspect, at our ages at the time, and given the age difference between us, he likely would have mentioned something to one of his bros or frat brothers or whatever; he was of that ilk and of that socioeconomic echelon where it would have been out of character for him not to have at least told a buddy or two about his upcoming date.  I don't even actually have to wonder what the follow-up story was like when his friends asked how his date went.  I imagine the retelling was either something he reluctantly told one time, to one or two people, with the caveat that this never, ever be spoken of again, ever.  If he did in fact tell his friends, I'd hope they would have refrained from the low-hanging fruit of mocking him incessantly, forever and ever. Who knows though.  I can only speculate.

When I think of that day, I can only conjure the image of the moment it finally dawned on me what had happened, and in that moment, frozen in time in my mind, "IT WAS CAT SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!!!!!" is always, always the scream that echoes across time and space.  It was cat shit.