There are two people inside me. I have known this since childhood while sitting in dentists’ waiting rooms, flipping through dog-eared copies of Highlights for Children and encountering the two boys who seemed to possess custody of my soul: Goofus and Gallant.
They appeared in countless moral tableaux. The boys faced identical chores, temptations, conflicts, and dilemmas. Goofus was the patron saint of poor decisions—a sniveling malcontent drawn instinctively toward selfishness, slovenliness, dishonesty, and shortcuts. He seemed to regard the human condition as a personal insult. Gallant, by contrast, beamed with the radiant confidence of a child who had never once disappointed a guidance counselor. He was truthful, virtuous, punctual, generous, and relentlessly wholesome. If Goofus represented original sin, Gallant represented a Hallmark card come to life.
My parents never subscribed to the magazine. I encountered it only in medical waiting rooms during the early 1970s, so for years I assumed Goofus and Gallant belonged exclusively to my own childhood fever dream. Decades later, I discovered that much had been written about them. Julie Beck, writing in The Atlantic, described the comic strip as a kind of Calvinist morality play in which “their essential nature was preordained by a higher power long ago—Goofus forever doomed to be a screwup, Gallant to be a smug little do-gooder.”
I’m glad I read Beck’s article because it rescued Goofus and Gallant from the fog of my childhood and confirmed that they were not merely figures from some private fever dream. For years they seemed less like characters from a magazine than recurring visitors from a half-remembered mythology that had taken up residence in my imagination.
I need that kind of verification because I am one of those unfortunate people whose dreams refuse to remain confined to sleep. They leak into waking life. I rise carrying their residue like smoke trapped in my clothes. Long after the dream has ended, I can still sense its lingering odors, feel its unpleasant film coating the day, and endure the emotional aftershocks of its dark allegories. Some dreams fade by breakfast. Mine can haunt me for days, leaving behind a vague but persistent conviction that I have witnessed something both absurd and deeply accusatory.
In my dreams, however, I am neither Goofus nor Gallant.
I am Condemned.
I am not the villain. I am not the hero. I am merely the witness forced to watch his own downfall unfold. My dreams place me on trial, convict me, and then require me to sit through the sentencing.
Of all the symbolic collapses I could describe, one stands above the others. To understand my predicament, we must travel to the 2002 Los Angeles Tofu Festival.
There, I encountered a portable toilet.
The remarkable thing is that I spent no more than five seconds inside it. I never actually used it. Yet those five seconds altered the trajectory of my life.
The structure stood alone at the edge of the festival grounds like a forgotten monument to human overconfidence. Its blue plastic walls had faded beneath years of relentless California sun into the color of a bruised sky. Scratches, stains, and scars suggested it had survived several natural disasters and perhaps a minor military campaign. The door sagged slightly on its hinges as though exhausted by the burden of existence.
Near the top was a peeling service sticker bearing its identity:
ManCo Portable Solutions
P-1426
The designation carried the cold authority of a prison number or military serial code. This was not merely a portable toilet.
This was P-1426.
The moment I opened the door and felt the blast of hot air strike my face like the breath of an infernal beast, it became clear that certain human experiences were never meant to be endured.
I will not describe what I saw. I have no wish to relive the trauma.
Let us simply say that I appeared to witness a squadron of bat-demons conducting an emergency evacuation from the lower circles of hell. The atmosphere possessed the density of a hostile planet. Heat, stench, and oxygen deprivation united into a perfect storm of biological aggression.
Then I heard it.
A voice.
A cry rising from somewhere deep within the abyss.
“Help me.”
The words were unmistakable.
I staggered backward. I uttered a curse in a voice that did not sound like my own. Then I fled before my body could be officially declared a casualty.
The experience injured me.
I required convalescence.
For nearly a year I lived like a Victorian invalid. I drank herbal tea with ceremonial solemnity. I listened to motivational speakers while lying motionless with my eyes closed and my lower lip trembling. Most of all, I read the Book of Psalms in search of reassurance that humanity had survived comparable ordeals.
King David had his enemies.
Job had his boils.
Ahab had his white whale.
I had P-1426.
And the plea for help.
That plea tormented me because Gallant would have answered it.
Gallant would have descended into the darkness and rescued the lost soul.
I did what Goofus would do.
I fled.
I abandoned the suffering stranger to whatever horrors lurked within the suffocating blue chamber. I crossed the Valley of the Shadow of Death and returned carrying not triumph but shame.
I was forty years old at the time. I had endured heartbreak, financial anxiety, family crises, and professional disappointments. Yet standing now in my mid-sixties, I can say with complete confidence that the most transformative event of my life occurred inside a portable toilet during a five-second encounter at a tofu festival.
I have given this trauma a name:
The Latrine of No Return.
A Latrine of No Return is a formative experience so grotesque and spiritually destabilizing that it divides existence into two eras: Before the Incident and After the Incident.
Before the Incident, I possessed innocence. I trusted civilization. I believed progress was real. I assumed humanity had solved certain fundamental problems.
After the Incident, those illusions were gone.
The man who approached P-1426 still believed he might someday become Gallant.
The man who emerged knew better.
Being a college writing professor, I naturally attempted to intellectualize the matter. Goofus and Gallant sounded far too juvenile for a man of my sophistication. I therefore rebranded the struggle.
Goofus became Egregious.
Gallant became Unctuous.
I hoped a little linguistic flourish might elevate me above my malaise.
It did not.
For twenty years I remained haunted by the cry for help.
Far from fading, it grew louder.
Year after year, dream after dream, the voice returned.
Until one night I awoke with a horrifying realization.
The soul was still there.
And if redemption was possible, there was only one course of action left.
I would have to return.
I would have to locate P-1426, descend into whatever infernal dimension existed within its blue plastic walls, rescue the forgotten prisoner, and emerge from the depths not merely as a survivor, but as a redeemed man.
At long last, I would have to become Gallant.
Hidden in my bedroom one evening with a true crime show on in the background, I called the number for ManCo Portable Solutions while my family was watching TV in the living room. I talked to a man by the name of Manny about my desire to examine the inside of P-1426, but omitted the part where I’m trying to rescue a hostage or a survivor or something like that. Manny repeated P-1426 like it was a familiar utterance, a long-standing part of his world. He said I could come visit P-1426 the next morning, but I’d have to be there at seven. He had to go for a medical appointment at nine regarding kidney stones.
The next morning, I drove to an industrial district in Los Angeles. The warehouse stretched across the industrial lot like an aircraft hangar devoted to an unusually specific religion. Row after row of portable toilets stood at attention beneath fluorescent lights, their blue plastic walls reflecting a cold industrial glow. Hundreds of them filled the cavernous space in military formation, creating long corridors that disappeared into the distance. The faint scent of disinfectant hung in the air. Forklifts sat idle in corners like mechanical beasts resting between campaigns.
At the center of the warehouse, as if occupying the command post of a strange sanitation empire, sat Manny behind a battered metal desk. The desk looked absurdly small amid the vast kingdom of portable toilets surrounding him. On either side stood two of his newest models, gleaming under the overhead lights. Their plastic surfaces were immaculate, their doors perfectly aligned, their ventilation systems polished and modern. They looked less like portable toilets than luxury automobiles unveiled at a trade show. One could easily imagine Manny regarding them with paternal pride.
Manny himself appeared less pristine than his products. He wore a blue jumpsuit with the company logo embroidered above the breast pocket. The fabric was clean but permanently wrinkled, as if no amount of laundering could erase decades spent in the sanitation business. His dark hair was combed straight back, and a thick, bushy mustache dominated the lower half of his face. Yet it was his eyes that commanded attention. They were sad eyes, ringed with dark bags and carrying the exhausted expression of a man who had spent a lifetime confronting aspects of human existence most people preferred not to acknowledge. Those eyes suggested that Manny knew things. He had witnessed things. Entire chapters of human history.
He sat quietly behind his desk, surrounded by his gleaming fleet of state-of-the-art portable toilets, looking less like a businessman than the weary curator of one of civilization’s least celebrated institutions. The new models stood around him like luxury sedans at an auto show, their polished plastic surfaces glowing beneath the fluorescent lights. Manny studied me with a look that combined skepticism, friendliness, and the exhaustion of a man who had spent decades confronting aspects of humanity most people preferred not to think about.
“What brings you to P-one-four-two-six?” he asked. “That’s an old model. I’ve got newer, much better ones.”
“I had an encounter with P-one-four-two-six,” I said.
Manny nodded with surprising seriousness.
“That happens,” he said. “Some people go to Disneyland. Some people go inside a portable toilet and come out with a story they tell for the rest of their lives.”
He squinted at me for a moment.
“You have claustrophobia, don’t you?”
I nodded.
“I knew it.” He pointed toward one of the newer units. “Forget P-one-four-two-six. Go with the new Q Series. Far more spacious. Better ventilation. Interior comfort package. Practically a studio apartment compared to those old units. The luxury, my friend. Oh boy.”
His enthusiasm failed to reassure me.
“Is everything okay with P-one-four-two-six?” I asked. “Have you inspected it?”
“Of course.” He nodded. “Clean as a whistle. As good as the day it rolled out of the factory.”
Then, without warning, his face tightened. He grabbed his side and bent forward.
“Kidney stones,” he muttered.
The words came out like a confession.
I asked him how he got them.
Manny leaned back in his chair and stared toward the warehouse ceiling.
“Spinach,” he said bitterly.
“Spinach?”
“Spinach. Kale. Spirulina. Green smoothies. The whole wellness cult.”
He shook his head.
“My wife got cancer. No insurance. One of the doctors who treated her wouldn’t accept payment plans. Sixty thousand dollars. Maybe more. I paid it. Every penny. I emptied accounts. Took loans. Did whatever I had to do.”
His voice softened.
“She got better.”
He paused.
“Then she left.”
The fluorescent lights hummed above us.
“After that, I figured maybe I should improve myself. Lose weight. Become one of those optimized people you read about. Every morning I drank a blender full of spinach, kale, and enough oxalates to pave a highway.”
He laughed darkly.
“Turns out I didn’t become healthy. I became geological.”
At that moment another wave of pain hit him.
He clutched his side and let out a cry.
The sound froze my blood.
I had heard that cry before.
Not in this warehouse.
Not in this city.
Not even in this decade.
I had heard it twenty years earlier.
Inside P-one-four-two-six.
The same desperate pitch. The same wounded note. The same plea rising from some place of suffering and abandonment.
My pulse quickened.
The years collapsed.
The dream.
The guilt.
The voice begging for help.
It had never come from the portable toilet.
It had come from Manny.
Manny was the lost soul.
The realization struck with the force of divine revelation. For twenty years I had imagined descending into an infernal portable toilet to rescue a stranger trapped in darkness. The entire quest had been wrong. The soul I was searching for had been sitting in front of me all along, wearing a blue jumpsuit and suffering from kidney stones, heartbreak, and the accumulated disappointments of a hard life.
At that moment I understood my purpose.
I had not returned to find P-one-four-two-six.
I had returned to find Manny.
Manny and I became friends after that.
At first we met for coffee. Then we played racquetball. Soon we were taking kettlebell classes and struggling through power yoga sessions together, two middle-aged men attempting to negotiate peace treaties with joints that had long ago declared independence. We launched a YouTube channel devoted to men over fifty dealing with loneliness, depression, regret, and the peculiar sensation of realizing that life had quietly become shorter than the road already traveled. We hosted livestreams for men who felt discarded by modern life. We exchanged our recurring nightmares like war veterans comparing old battle scars.
Most of all, I listened.
Manny possessed a gift.
For thirty years he had delivered portable toilets to concerts, festivals, political rallies, county fairs, marathons, and public gatherings of every conceivable variety. In doing so, he had become an accidental anthropologist of human desperation. He had witnessed people lose their minds while waiting in restroom lines. He had watched drunken concertgoers engage in territorial disputes over portable toilets with the strategic intensity of military commanders defending a contested border. He had seen people vandalize his property, attempt athletic feats that defied both physics and common sense, and occasionally injure themselves in ways that seemed to require active imagination.
Each story was more absurd than the last.
A man who tried to crowd-surf into a portable toilet.
A wedding guest who locked himself inside one to avoid dancing.
A festival attendee who attempted to tip a unit over and succeeded only in tipping himself into a cactus.
Manny told these stories with the solemn authority of a man delivering ancient wisdom.
Before long, people couldn’t get enough of him.
The channel grew.
The livestream audience expanded.
Viewers tuned in from around the country to hear Manny explain how portable toilets occupied a strange intersection between civilization and chaos. He could discuss sanitation logistics with the seriousness of a philosopher while describing a music festival toilet emergency with the pacing of a Hollywood action film. He somehow made human waste, loneliness, redemption, and rock concerts feel like chapters from the same grand narrative.
People adored him.
I watched as Manny became a minor celebrity.
His stories were clipped and shared online. Viewers quoted him. Fans approached him after events. Some even asked for selfies with the man who had transformed portable sanitation into a lens for understanding the human condition.
And I found that I didn’t mind.
In fact, I was proud.
For once, I did not feel the need to compete for attention, to claim authorship, or to stand at center stage. I stepped aside and watched Manny flourish. The spotlight suited him. The lonely man who had once sat in a warehouse surrounded by portable toilets now had an audience hanging on every word.
My wife noticed the change.
One evening she looked at me and smiled.
“You know,” she said, “this might be the nicest thing you’ve ever done.”
I knew what she meant.
For decades I had worried about obscurity. I had measured myself against impossible standards and imagined success as some distant mountain peak crowned with applause, recognition, and glory. Yet here I was, helping another person find his voice and discovering that the experience brought a deeper satisfaction than any personal acclaim I had ever chased.
Only then did I understand what had happened.
I had spent twenty years searching for the lost soul trapped inside P-1426.
I thought I was rescuing Manny.
The truth was that Manny had rescued me.
And in surrendering the spotlight, in helping another person become fully himself without demanding credit or recognition, I had finally achieved the impossible.
After all these years, I had become Gallant.
Cinemorphosis 