It was the summer of ‘08: Bush was bombing Iraq, Fall Out Boy was on the radio, and golden showers reigned supreme in my suburban neighborhood. The days were strange, indeed. Looking back, however, Romantic zoomer summers have perhaps been the only times in my life when moments of enlightenment so frequently interchanged with moments of mediocrity, in the voyages for my self-discovery. Personally, while other eight-year-olds were off catching frogs and snorting cocaine, I was pissing — pissing hard. This is the story of my piss, my story of enlightenment.
Since my high school brother and his girlfriend were off “doing better things”, like listening to Piss-182’s newest album in our basement, this time my ride trek to the park would be a solo one. So I grabbed my bike, waited for my parents’ signal as they walked behind me, and I put my rubber to the sidewalk. However, as I began my trip, I quickly realized my strong need to pee. Slowly pedaling, I pondered two solutions to this “pee-dicament”. Firstly, I could ride back to my parents and embarrassingly admit my problem, since they were probably just a football field behind; secondly, I could be a “big boy” and resiliently deny the ever-increasing pain. Affirmatively, I chose the latter. Why? No clue, but to be fair, I had only been four or five years out of potty training so my bathroom IQ was quite low. Either way, continue with me as I tread on my three tires — witness the chaos that I’m about to create.
My journey hadn’t been too painstaking until I met the hill on Peabody Road. And by hill, I mean a slightly graded sidewalk mired with cracks because fixing it would require a small increase in taxes and inconvenience, which is communism. Due to this suburban frugality, my bladder greatly suffered: the yellow liquid in my lower abdomen sloshing around as I tricycled over every uneven bump and crack. Once I reached the bottom, I was essentially drowning in my own piss, utterly gasping for a glimpse of a nearby toilet.
Basically speeding, I eventually came body to urinal with the park, a stop sign and a road the only things between me and it. However, this was a problem. My Obama-loving parents wouldn’t let me cross a street without their permission, and I couldn’t wait for them as they walked behind at the pace of boomers in a supermarket. Grabbing my groin, I looked to my left and saw the house of Edna Smith, the widow of a once esteemed high school principal. Although I didn’t want to spray this old lady’s yard with disrespect, I had no other choice. So, I did the unthinkable: I pulled down my shorts and proceeded to pee in her front yard, my little button wavering in the wind like the American flag. In the evening light, with God’s setting Sun watching over me, I vigilantly surveyed the neighborhood, looking up and around to be sure I hadn’t caught the eyes of any willing or unwilling or elderly observers. Like any other transgression, I felt a sort of enlightenment from my action; I could have been Che Guevara pissing on the bloated face of a dead fascist, or perhaps Bernie Sanders doing the same thing but on the grand facade of the establishment — either way, it was an act of flag-planting defiance.
And, to put it simply, that’s it. After pissing in the yard for approximately 13 seconds, I was done. Right when I fully pulled up my shorts, mom and dad luckily turned around the corner, signaling me to cross the street. I don’t remember the rest of the story because, well, there was no more piss; in this case, the piss was better than the journey AND the destination.
Looking back at this moment over the years, I’ve often thought about reliving that fateful piss again (don’t worry, I haven’t). Biking by that same spot, the grass that I had pissed on consistently grows raggedly short and white, seemingly a product of my urine. I don’t think Edna is happy about this, but one cannot control another’s bladder; hell, to this day, I can’t even control my own bladder!
Written by Jake Schitz, Contributor