Sarah and I had just begun dating. The year? 1986 or 1987. Teenagers. Awkward. Hesitant. Anxious and embarrassed by every smell, physical imperfection, and imagined misunderstanding. How’s my breath? How bad, precisely was that joke? Would she let me kiss her again?

We grew up in Beaver County, Pennsylvania, a very rural western-PA county an hour outside Pittsburgh. Dirt roads and yee-haw! (Ever watch a film or read a book where everyone knows each other, most are related, with the remainder soon to be related? That precisely describes Beaver County.) My kindergarten classmates, with little variance, all graduated high school with me. Our community kept few secrets; we resolved most problems person-to-person.

This degree of community intimacy made dating rather complicated. All of us burgeoning Romeos grew up with and knew the girl next door, but she also knew us. Too well. She knew our history and all our past embarrassments and foibles. We’d all like to think these things didn’t matter. But with my reputation—dorky, academic, bookish, nerdy—good luck! It didn’t help that puberty gifted me with a well-below-average weight on a very average stature. As directed by stereotype, I hung out with the geek crowd, read avidly, and played Dungeons & Dragons. (Back then, the cool kids didn’t game.) And like most nerdy boys, I leaned into sarcasm and biting humor to compensate for my insecurities. Most girls I grew up with wisely steered clear.

That said, Sarah laughed at my bad jokes and agreed to take a chance. She checked off all the right boxes: smart, cute, and pretty darn cool. Most importantly, she said yes!

The 1980s. Cable television hadn’t proliferated yet. The internet didn’t exist. Neither did cell phones. Most of the time, we took our dates to a movie. Or took long drives throughout the countryside—or—ahem—parked—grabbing a burger on the go. Or we rented a movie (on a VHS cassette tape) from the local video store and stayed in.

Sarah and I had already gone out a couple of times. That night, though, we decided to stay at her place, chow down on chips and soda, and watch a movie while her mom hovered in the other room, pretending not to pay attention.

The night commenced wonderfully. I kept my sarcasm to a minimum, though I wavered between valiant attempts at charm and my more natural wise-cracking.

We sat side by side on the couch, my arm around her waist. A milestone! I still couldn’t believe she found me attractive. But here I sat, enveloped in her Electric Youth perfume.

This sudden shift from friendship to romance triggered significant anxiety. It took a lot of willpower for me to resist blurting out, “Holy crap! Why me!” followed by effusive, simpering gratitude. Instead, and thankfully, I peppered the conversation with compliments (so smooth!), and we gossiped about our friends and who they were dating. And—ugh!—the likelihood that folks were talking about us. Occasionally, I glanced nervously at the doorway, wondering what her mother thought. Did she approve?

Looking back, I wish I could recall what we watched. Ferris Bueller? The Breakfast Club? Better Off Dead?

We’d consumed half of a bag of Ruffles when I felt an unusual pressure. It sat high in my gut and seemed innocuous at first, but my spidey sense warned me that I might need to take action, and soon.

Before the date, I prioritized appearance and grooming. Dork though I was, I was determined to be a clean and well-groomed dork. I gargled a gallon of Listerine and slapped on far too much Obsession. With marketing promising the cologne to be “Compelling. Potent. Powerful.” and that I would be emboldened with “the determination and fire that drives men’s passions . . .” Oh yes, I needed more of that!

Throughout the date, I constantly touched up my oh-so-very-fashionable mullet and attempted not to be overly self-conscious about eating in front of her.

Similarly, we each masterfully executed proper bathroom etiquette: a protocol that required one to disappear and then promptly reappear, never to be directly addressed or acknowledged. Discreet. If I had the option, though, I’d drive back to my house, go to the bathroom, re-shower, and then drive back.

We ate chips—loud but cheap and a staple of the at-home date. I tried not to eat like a ravenous teen (difficult!). The only biological drive that superseded hunger in the hypothalamus of a 17-year-old boy was the evolutionary Find mate now!

Her mom made up 35,000 excuses to pass through the room during the first 20 minutes of the film until Sarah shouted, “Come on, Mom! Nothing’s happening! Please!” My insecurity turned that “Nothing’s happening!” into “Wow. Todd’s lame.” Her mother promised to make herself scarce. And did so. We thought. Alone time. Finally.

And then my stomach moved.

An alien baby seemed to have kicked my pancreas and then begun to gently massage the wad of chips in my stomach. I must have made a sound because when I looked over at Sarah, I found her staring back with a distinct look of concern.

“Everything okay?”

“Of course!” I smiled ridiculously at her, clearly a lie. A bead of sweat ran down my face.

My stomach groaned. Something guttural, something profane. My smile wavered. More sweat. Her brow furrowed with alarm.

Attempting to contain my panic, I furtively glanced behind us, identified the correct door, then looked back at her. Yup, she noticed.

“I think I need to—”

“Yes, I think you should.” She shifted away from me like I might detonate.

Still trying to play it off. I carefully rose from the couch, stretched my arms, and yawned. “Do you need anything from the—”

My stomach cut me off with an anguished growl-urble. I froze. The cosmic hell-sound traveled throughout my gut as if something were probing for an exit. Something was probing for an exit! I focused desperately on ensuring “exit of least resistance” did not translate to “in my pants.”

The world went silent. Sarah and I, frozen in time, stared at each other.

“I’ll—”

I turned sharply towards the door and shimmy-ran, trying to make my shuffle look more decisive than desperate. Undoubtedly, my gait appeared precisely as it was: the walk of someone in danger of releasing his bowels—bathroom or no bathroom.

Fortunately, I didn’t have to travel far to get to the bathroom door. Unfortunately, the bathroom was only ten feet from the couch. And from the girl who I did not want to experience even a hint of what was undoubtedly about to occur.

I focused on the knob. One step. Two steps. Three-hundred and fifty steps later, I entered the bathroom, shut the door, and flipped the switch for the fan. Nothing. Flip. Flip. Flip. Nothing. I sobbed.

Something rearranged my insides. I grabbed the sink and shut my eyes, bearing down on the porcelain in a valiant attempt to control the monster spasming within—a monster who knew we had made it to the bathroom. Without consulting me, my body and the beast came to an agreement that this was close enough, toilet or no. I closed my eyes and wished the world away.

The cramping did finally subside a notch. I opened the tap and splashed water on my face.

I waddled to the commode and—

Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god! A mad flurry of movement commenced. Thankfully, I got my pants down before . . .

Explosive. Noisy. Awful events followed.

I suppressed a whimper of both relief and despair. The only thing between my prospective soul mate and me was a light-duty interior door. Beyond that door sat a lovely young lady who knew all the same people I knew. And a mother who knew everyone’s parents, including my own. I wished for a meteor to strike me down.

Courtesy flush. Please don’t clog. I suddenly became religious.

It didn’t clog.

Whew! I had stopped sweating, but when I attempted to stand up, my gut twisted into a knot and—

Rounds two through five got progressively milder, but my body could no longer be trusted.

This went on for far longer—far louder—than was socially discreet. And . . . still no fan.

After some time, I heard a faint knock. I panic-shouted, my voice cracking, “OCCUPIED!” and then immediately face-palmed. Yeah. No shit. I face-palmed again.

“Do you need anything?” her mother asked.

Dignity? I thought. Escape? (Sarcasm muscles still functional. Check!)

“No, no. I’m just . . . um . . . washing up.” I winced.

Fifteen minutes and three more flushes later, I noticed the TV volume had been turned up. I could just barely make out a whispered argument in the next room. I figured that Sarah had fled by now. Maybe even called up some random guy to replace me. Her previous date had a freak accident, she’ll tell him. But no. Apparently, Sarah remained, patiently waiting for our real-life horror show to end. On one side of the door, a tragic everyman; on the other, a beautiful innocent. Separated by circumstance; tethered by social propriety.

I couldn’t quite decipher the whispered conversation until, at one point, Sarah’s mother’s voice acquired a parental intensity: “This can happen to anyone . . .” [mumble mumble mumble]. Then she hissed, “You see this through!”

Could anyone nominate someone for sainthood? Sarah’s mother certainly warranted canonization.

I felt a pit in my stomach unrelated to my recent gastronomical calamity. At least twenty-five minutes had passed. Maybe a half hour. And for the last ten, while the death throes in my gut subsided, I sat there hoping they would simply forget I existed.

I sighed and began to clean up. As soon as the water kicked on, I heard a mad scramble outside the door as if someone shouted, “Places, everyone!” I must have washed my hands three times. I smelled my armpits, wrinkled my nose, took my shirt off, and washed as best as I could.

I dried off and stood at the door, one hand resting on the doorknob. Sarah had turned down the television. Ugh. This was it! I waited. Waited for what? I don’t know. I sniffed the air but could no longer detect whatever constituted my particular microclimate. I considered exiting the bathroom calmly, smiling, bidding everyone adieu, and then walking straight out the door, perhaps even moving to another state.

I gripped the handle and . . . opened the door.

A rush of cool fresh air washed over me. As if an angel were descending, Sarah’s mom swooped in, gave me a big hug, and whispered something in my ear. Probably some sort of encouragement. I couldn’t recall since my mind had more or less gone numb. Sarah pretended to be momentarily engrossed in a program on the television, then peeked over the couch, waved her hand, and cheerily said, “Oh! Hi there!” We made eye contact; her smile wavered; we both looked away. After a moment, she cleared her throat, stood up, walked over, and hugged me.

Sarah grabbed my hand and led me back to the couch. She flipped on the movie once again, and, just like that, we continued the date as if nothing had happened. Her mother smiled and then made herself scarce. Before long, Sarah snuggled into me and kissed me on the cheek. All was right in the world once again. We finished the date and said our goodbyes—a pleasant evening, all things considered.

Sarah and I dated for just a few more months. Fleeting, like so many teen romances, but that one catastrophic experience had no discernible effect. In fact, I don’t know that we brought up that incident ever again.

Today, we’re still friends on social media. I should ask her if they ever fixed that damn fan.