Prelude to a Pee Tale
One of my pet peeves is when people say “I have to pee so bad I could pee my pants.” That’s a lie, isn’t it. They don’t understand. They don’t know what it’s like. What’s your highest Pees Per Day, your max PPD?
Five? Are you kidding me?
Are you serious? Are you senile?
Are you an alien? Are you a rock?
Five? I’ve peed five times before I get out of bed in the morning. Five? And you have to pee so bad you could pee your pants? Yeah right.
My top PPD is 17, but on average I’m emptying that forsaken sac around 10–12 times a day. My bladder has the mind and soul of Lord Voldemort. Seven horcruxes, eight if you count the one in Harry, and 9 if you count my bladder.
I’m driving down to Florida with a couple of college friends when I hear the unmistakable, deceptive, soft crooning of old Lord Voldy:
Time to pee, isn’t it, boy?
It’s like that scene in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix where Voldemort and Dumbledore duke it out and then Voldemort sort of goes inside Harry’s body and they have this mini one on one, this little heart to heart, and Dumbledore’s just sitting there on the sidelines, hanging in Harry’s corner all like: “You got this HP. You’re the fucking chosen one.” And Voldemort’s all: “You’ve got no friends, bright eyes!” And Harry’s: “Yeah I do, you dick. Besides, me and Hermione are probably banging so.” It’s like that, but I’m Harry and Lord Voldemort’s my bladder, and he’s definitely winning.
To the other students in the car: “Hey y’all do you mind if we stop in like 20 minutes to go to the bathroom? Just like ya know whenever.” I say, coolly, suavely. I just met these people, I’m trying to be hip, you know?
A crackle of a laugh from the depths of those still waters beneath:
I have seen your empty water bottle, and you are mine, my little muchacho.
A lurch from that violent, vehement vesicle.
“Hey maybe like 10–15 minutes actually would be good. Just like, whenever, no rush, but like maybe the next convenient stop we could stop.” A few head turns and a murmur of agreement. They can smell the fear in my pre-pee perspiration, I’m sure of it.
You’re a fool, Harry…
My kidneys kick into overdrive and and the side compartments of my stomach turn.
Just a snapshot and it happens all at once:
“Stop the car.” We’re doing it live.
“Does anyone have a plastic baggie? Ziplock?”
Joe, the driver: “Does anyone have to stop? There’s a place coming up.”
Harry Potter, but it’s me: “Yeah yeah that’d be great!”
Also me: “Do you ever pee your pants just a little bit?”
Joe, the driver : ~a look of suspicion and concern~