Story about you having to go pee really bad

It is a beautiful summer day, one of those ones with a clear blue sky only touched by biplanes buzzing through the air, reassuring sky writing trailing behind. Naturally, you decided to go for a walk around the neighborhood. So excited to get out and smell the flowers, you forget to use the toilet before you leave. It’s no matter though- you surely won’t be out that long.

Skipping down the sidewalk, you inhale. The air fills your lungs and soul. With each breath you expand, bloom. You turn the corner and come across a lemonade stand operated by a local youth. They smile. Would you like a glass of lemonade? Yes, you would. You take out your wallet, count at 50 cents, throw in an extra 25 for good measure, and hand it to the friendly proprietor. They take out a glass from under the table, and your eyes bulge. It must be nearly 2 feet long and 2 wide. As the youth pours the lemonade into the enormous glass, things become blurry. The ambient noises of the day move into the foreground- on some street over the buzzing of a lawn mower, the murmur of a conversation on an adjacent patio, the clinking of ice cubes in the glass.

You are brought back to reality when the youth hands you the glass of lemonade. It’s weight is so great you must take it in two hands. Drops of moisture slide down the glass as drops of sweat drip off your wrinkled forehead. It is more than you bargained for, but no matter. It’d be terribly rude to not drink every last drop. You raise the rim of the glass to your lips, open your mouth, and drink deeply. You can feel the liquid filling the stomach, expanding it like a balloon. Finally, the glass is empty. As your head spins you hand it back to the youth, give a quick, stilted thanks, and continue on your walk.

So disoriented by the experience, you wander aimlessly for a while. When you come to, you are in an unfamiliar neighborhood. Every fire hydrant on the block is spraying prodigious arcs of water into the air. At this moment you realize that you must urinate quite badly. You have no choice- you must knock on a door and hope a friendly stranger will take pity on you. You walk up the path to the nearest house, squirming a little, and quickly knock on the door. A man cracks open the door, one eye peeking out at you. I was out on a walk and well…your bathroom- may I use it? He nods. Sure thing, he says, I just need to unlock my door.

He closes the door and you hear a click as he opens a lock. And then another, and then another. You shift nervously back and forth as an interminable amount of locks open. Finally, the door opens. Sorry about that, he says, can never be too safe. You agree.

You step inside from the bright heat of the day into the cool dim of the man’s house. Now that relief is so close, it is as if your body can hardly wait. You look at the man expectantly. The bathroom is this way he says, just through the obstacle course. Your mouth and your bladder groan in consternation. It is one of my hobbies, he explains. He leads you through swinging pendulums and up slippery slopes and from behind you study him, trying to shift your focus from your own body to his. He is balding, and though he is short, his body is still somehow elongated, as if he was a slight, tall man who was shrunk but whose proportions otherwise stayed the same. You duck under a pole and leap over a crevasse to finally find yourself in front of the bathroom. The man looks at you. Just one moment he says, I was actually about to brush my teeth before you knocked and oral hygiene is very important to me. Your mouth is so dry you are unable to protest as he ducks into the bathroom and closes the door.

You now have to urinate so badly that you feel a slight breeze might tip you over. Your groin feels like a pit, or a water balloon about to burst. From the kitchen you hear the sink dripping in a steady, maddening rhythm. You press your ear up to the bathroom but hear nothing but a vague shuffling. Desperate, you knock rapidly. Just a second, answers the small tall man. The door swings open. You feel a drop fall in anticipation. But the man is now dressed as a clown. This is one of my other hobbies, he says. Then he honks his nose and squeezes the pump in his hand, squirting water out of the toy flower on his chest and spraying you in the face.

You release your despair, your tears, and your urine. It runs hot and steamy, soaking your pants, pooling in your shoes, spilling onto the floor. You move through every applicable emotion- anger, humiliation, shame, and by the time your bladder is empty so is your mind. It turns towards the practical. Apologies for the mess, you tell the man, but do you have any pants and shoes I can borrow for my walk home?

A few minutes later you are back on the street, heading home. Your clown pants billow in the breeze as your clown shoes smack the pavement in loud clops. At the corner you stick your hands into your pockets and sigh before turning your head upward, towards the blue sky. Still, you think, it is a beautiful day.

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