Excuse my language, but it is impossible to describe this event without calling the mayor’s outhouse “The Mayor’s Shithouse.”

Even the finest people in town, including Reverend Mills, called it that. In no other context would we have been allowed to use the word “shit.”

Back in those days, we didn’t have indoor plumbing. And no indoor plumbing meant no indoor, well, shitting. We had to go outside. So, the buildings were called outhouses.

Except for the Mayor’s Shithouse.

The mayor owned the bank. He was reelected every four years. His bank held most of the mortgages for homes and business loans in the township. 

If you owned a business, you sure didn’t want to oppose the mayor. Thus, the election results were always the same. 

Any campaigning was just for show. Phineas T. Traufman would be the mayor if he wanted to be.

Two things are significant at this point. First, the mayor disliked Buster. He took many of Buster’s sins to heart.

In fact, Buster got his nickname from the mayor.

Years ago, on Arbor Day, the mayor planted a tree and dedicated it to himself. He even put a sign on it to commemorate the event. 

When Buster was seven years old, the mayor saw Buster peeing on that tree during a campaign event. 

He started to say, “That little bas—” and quickly changed it to “buster.” After all, he was in front of half the town. 

So, after that, my best friend was known as Buster. 

The second fact you must know is about the outhouse itself. It had been designed and built with architectural care. 

It was not just a corn cob palace like the rest of us had. A hard wind would have blown down the other outhouses. They were thrown up to give people just enough privacy to do their business.

But not the mayor's. His outhouse was a thing to behold.

The walls were made of cement blocks. 

The outside was done in white siding to match the house.

A functional window had a planter on the inside, with real plants in it.

This structure stood against one side of Main Street. So, it was visible to the rest of the town. 

The mayor showed off his wealth by building this elaborate outhouse. It even had green trim, a metal door, and curtains over the window.

Two days before the mayor’s inaugural parade where he would get sworn into office—again— I went out with Buster. We were patrolling our creek. 

In early spring, the garter snakes emerged from their winter nap.

They were easy to grab as they squirmed lazily along the riverbanks.

“Let’s just shove ’em in the sack I brought,” said Buster. “I want about a dozen or so.”

I did not question his motive for wanting the snakes. It seemed like good sport. We usually grabbed a couple in the spring and took them home as pets. 

At dusk, Buster took the sack of snakes over to the mayor’s outhouse. He released the serpents into the small structure.

After closing the door tightly, he left. 

The expected results should have been comical enough, even for Buster. But when the mayor’s wife, Florence Traufman, entered the outhouse the next morning…that was more than we had counted on. 

Mrs. Traufman went to the outhouse carrying the thunder mugs from the night before—the pots from inside the house, so you didn’t have to go outside, if you know what I mean. 

This would normally be a job for their maid, but Mrs. Traufman needed to use the area anyway. So, she chose to do the job herself. 

Upon entering the outhouse, she set the night jars down on the floor. Then she sat down to do her business. 

After getting situated, she realized the floor was writhing with snakes.