The Pee Dee

| 11 Nov 2014 | 11:33

    Chanley was almost the perfect rebound. Handsome, tattooed, unambitious (polite way of saying slacker), a few years older. He was a local rock star and put me on the guest list of all his band’s shows. He lived in a big rundown old house with his six male bandmates. The non-functional pool in the backyard was emptied and converted into any skateboarder’s wet dream. The dining room had been transformed into a rehearsal space complete with opium den-like pillows on the floor for smoke breaks.

    Despite occasionally feeling like a groupie, I loved hanging out at Chanley’s place. Except for one thing. I always left when I had to pee.

    To say that Chanley’s bathroom was uninviting would be a grave understatement. Shaving remnants from weeks prior clung to every surface, creating the impression that the sink was growing a beard. The shower was black with slimy mildew and the holes where tiles were missing grinned mischievously. There was no toilet seat, and the bowl glowed a shade of yellow making it impossible to determine whether someone had forgotten to flush.

    One night, after considering peeing standing up with my eyes closed and my nose plugged, I concluded that driving 40 minutes home was a better option. With a full bladder and A Tribe Called Quest blaring out of my speakers, I turned onto the highway, hoping that I wouldn’t hit rush hour traffic. Only 10 minutes behind the wheel I was clutching my crotch and biting my tongue. There was no way I was going to remain dry 30 more minutes.

    Pulling off the highway, I hoped to find a gas station, a McDonald’s or just a friendly-looking tree, but saw only surly office buildings and vast parking lots. I took my chances on the first parking lot. It was midday on a Saturday, so the lot was all but deserted. There was a diner across the street, but I wondered if running was realistic with my bladder filled so far past capacity. I looked left, I looked right. And then it hit me and I peed all over myself.

    My face and body contorted with the various conflicting emotions of a 20-year-old who had just wet herself. First shock, mixed with panic, then relief, embarrassment and a whole lot of discomfort. I stood soaked and smelly in my piss puddle, contemplating my next move. Finally I waddled back to my car, cringing with each step at the sloshing of the urine accumulated in my shoes. It seemed to echo across the parking lot as a reminder of my humiliation. Slosh. You pissed your pants. Slosh. You are disgusting. Slosh. Where’s your bladder control, asshole? Slosh, slosh, slosh.

    Having just peed myself in a deserted suburban parking lot, I figured to hell with modesty and stripped naked from the waist down. With my jeans, drawers, socks, which I had to wring out, and shoes sitting crumpled and damp in the passenger seat I wrapped a blanket I found in my trunk around myself and set out once again for home.

    Fiercely determined to get home as fast as possible, I drove in silence. My bare and still slightly moist foot was heavy on the accelerator: 70 mph, 80, 90. Distracted by the great time I was making, I didn’t notice the police cruiser behind me until too late.

    The female officer, small, mousy and looking all of 16 gum-chewing years old, was unsympathetic, mistaking my show of female camaraderie as flirtation. ("Come on, Officer, I’m sure you know what it’s like…") She eyed my pile of discarded, urine-saturated clothes and wrote the ticket anyway.

    "Wetting your pants is no reason to go that fast," she said flatly, tearing off my $110 speeding ticket.

    Excuse me? Temporary loss of bladder control seemed like a justifiable reason to disobey the speed limit to me.

    I considered trying to get a doctor’s excuse, documenting my weak bladder, and contesting the ticket in court. But somehow standing before a judge and explaining my situation just didn’t seem like a good idea. "You see, your honor, the bathroom is really gross and…." In the end I decided $110 was the price I was going to pay for "having a little accident" in a public parking lot. I considered it rather lucky, actually. The fine for indecent exposure is much higher.

    I never told Chanley. It took him weeks to figure out that whenever I said, "I’ll be right back," I ran next door to use his neighbor’s bathroom.