There isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t think of him. He’s maybe 15-20 seconds of the total film, but he’s left me with 30+ years of memories. Dark thoughts. Often a nightmare or two. And then, a warmth washes over me. He’s nameless, nearly faceless, and one of a million turds to cycle through some random New York City jail. He could be anyone, yet is no one. He’s fat, absurd, and likely in lockup due to a Twinkie theft from the corner market, but he’s as memorable as Orson Welles in The Third Man. An entrance just as dramatic, with a lasting impression even more so. I’ve invented a half-dozen backstories for him, then scrubbed them all to start anew. Who is he? When was he released? Did he have a mother who missed him? Kids, a job? Hopes and dreams? He’s my own personal D.B. Cooper, with a future just as delightfully mysterious.
For fans of the film, we all have a common link. A knowing wink when the line trickles forth: “I tore it out.” We know it so well, it’s taken on the trappings of myth. The “it” being a toilet, of course, without even a futile stab in the direction of why. Frustration at his lot in life? An embarrassing charade to hide the results of his latest colon cleanse? A lashing out to prevent man and beast alike from getting to take a piss? What’s his game? This much is true: he was allowed to do it. No one stepped in to change his mind. What this suggests to me is that he’s a man of respect. Engenders enough fear to keep even the likes of Fraker in his own corner. He’s fat and round and more King Kong Bundy than King Kong, but he can likely hold his own. Maybe had a gang of his own back in the day, before he needed 20,000 calories a day just to get by.
But wouldn’t you know it, he just had to encounter Paul Kersey that fateful afternoon. Was minding his own, lording over the shattered commode like a strutting Caesar, and in steps his destiny. Undeniable pride, quickly reduced to humiliation. A man in full, reduced to a cell block joke. But he had it coming. It would have been enough just to let Kersey know it was he who was responsible for destroying the plumbing, but he had to get cocky. Take it a step further. Go for broke, when no one had bothered to ask. Yes, he shot his shot. Struck the first blow. Went in for the attack, when no one, least of all Paul, deserved such treachery. But he had a new move he just had to show the boys. A hammer blow he saw on the tube late one night before an unquenchable sugar craving got him 2-5. A coward’s move, since Paul was on his way elsewhere. He’d likely never hit the road back.
Yes, old chubby would be thrust between the bars of that tightly packed cell. Shaving those ears a bit too close, leading to one hell of a headache. And a little blood for the cheap seats. Points and jokes to follow, with a random shout, “Talk about getting shitfaced!” A moniker forever tattooed, from The Tombs to Riker’s. But they’ve all been there. Faced an ass-kicking when they weren’t prepared. Got knocked down, only to rise like a phoenix. But here, it was at the hands of an old man. A good 35 years his senior. A geriatric with Medicare on the horizon. A two-bit grandpa, and he laid him the fuck low. Not a chance Tubs is allowed a second act. Aspirations and ambitions as obliterated as the infamous toilet. Coulda been a contender, now he’ll be an errand boy. A wannabe Scarface, sent to the back of the bus until he’s lowered into an extra-large grave. But for Paul….. Now only a whisper on the wind.
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