OPINION: Clowns, pool drains and outdoor potties

Nov. 6—It's become a tradition for me to send a clown photo to my son every Halloween. This year, I was a day late when I remembered.

I texted Cole the 2022 version of Pennywise, then put it on Facebook, thinking at least someone could enjoy it. I explained it this way: "I'm angry at myself for failing to text my annual Halloween clown photo to Cole, who is coulrophobic. Due to short staffing and death threats, it must've slipped my mind. So I guess I'm going to have to disturb all of you instead. Now, have a restful night's sleep, if you can."

After a bit, I got a text message from Cole: "Sorry, but the person you are trying to frighten with your cheap jump scare is not available right now. Please try your message again later, perhaps with fresh material. Thank you." I shared that on Facebook, and everyone thought it was funny. Well, almost everyone. One friend private-messaged me with a gentle scold: "You shouldn't torment someone with a phobia." I told her I was embellishing a little. I don't think he has a phobia in a clinical sense. But as one who herself has a weird phobia, I believe It's a good idea to face these things head-on. Besides, Cole is in good company. Among the famous coulrophobes are Harry Potter star Daniel Radcliffe, Johnny Depp, Carol Burnett, and even rap star P Diddy, whom I read had a "no clowns" clause in his contracts. I'm not sure they have diagnosed phobias, either, but they are said to detest clowns, and though Radcliffe's problem might be blamed on Stephen King's "It," a malevolent version of Bozo must be responsible for the older folks.

I am afraid of pool drains. Some people find that surprising, since I swim several days a week for my arthritis. I've gotten a better handle on the problem lately; I can stand to wear goggles, and occasionally peer through them when I'm in the deep end. But I never knew the word for someone who is fearful of pool drains until last week. I had looked it up before online with no success, but this time, I hit paydirt: "Aquamechanophobia is the fear of machines having to do with water. Pool drains also fall under this category. These fears include pool drains, pool lights, pool pumps, pipes with water running through, toilets, sinks, bathrooms, etc."

This definition seems too broad. It makes sense to be apprehensive about pool drains, because you might get sucked down to the bottom in a whirlpool and drown, hair snarled in the dark grate, as bubbles slowly rise to the surface. Not likely, but at least plausible. But what kind of life could you have if you were afraid of bathrooms? You'd be filthy and malodorous, with green teeth and impacted bowels. I guess you might slip on the tile when getting out of the shower, and fall and break a hip. That's pretty scary, and it could happen to anyone my age, anywhere at any time. And sinks? Those drains are so small nothing really horrible could emerge from them, though I have seen a spider or two scuttle out. But that would be more of a concern for an arachnophobe.

Even toilet terror see puzzling. In high school, we often heard about a kid getting a "swirly" from the other jocks for fumbling the football. That meant the aggressors had upended the victim, stuck his head in the toilet, and flushed. If there was urine in the toilet, it was a "lemon swirly"; if feces, a "chunky swirly." It's possible this is an urban legend of the kind that crops up even in rural areas, but anyone who got a swirly during childhood could be forgiven for breaking out in a cold sweat upon approaching a commode. But how would he relieve himself? "We all go," as the commercial says. Would the phobic carry around one of those plastic glove-bags dog owners have, and just duck behind a building, drop drawers, and do his business? In New York City, I saw people walking their dogs, and they performed this function efficiently. The dog and owner would stop; the dog would make a couple of tight circles, squat and poop; and the owner would pop on a plastic glove, scoop up the poop, peel off the glove and turn it inside-out, roll it up, and slip it into a container worn on a belt around the waist. The entire process took less than 15 seconds.

A fear of outhouses, I understand. It's known as paruresis or portaphobia, and it has no doubt increased since the release of the movie "Dogma" and its portrayal of the "excremental," also known as the "sh*t demon." The only experience I've had with an outhouse occurred when I was a teen, and our church youth group took a mission trip to Colorado. We stayed in cabins in the mountains, and had to use an outhouse. If we had to go after dark, we carried flashlights, and were concerned a proto-Michael Myers had secreted himself in there, awaiting his next victim. No one wanted to contemplate what horrors might be lurking in the black maw, capering in the muck.

One night, a girl came back from the outhouse to report the previous patron apparently failed to check whether the lid was up. It wasn't; the patron had urinated on the lid. Being as how we were on a religious trip, my friend Diane and I hastily wrote a poem, which we taped on the door at first light: "Verily, verily, I say unto ye: Open thine lid before ye pee." One of the guys in a nearby cabin decided to take it a step further, and the next night, did a No. 2 on the lid. We followed with another missive: "Verily, verily I say unto you: Open thine lid before ye poo."

I do not know who cleaned up the mess either time, but no doubt it was an aggrieved counselor. I hope he or she didn't have mysophobia.