The Other “F” Word
Joseph Eastburn
The first time I remember making “frequent” trips to the rest-
room was in a movie theater in North Carolina in the ’80s; I was
willing to blame it on that gallon of soda. Actually, my mother no-
ticed it early on. Whenever I’d leave the table for a trip to the loo,
she’d mutter, “He inherited my short bladder.” I thought that was
an unfortunate choice of words.
Only three years ago, working as an adjunct professor, I could
teach an hour and a half class without leaving my room of twen-
ty undergraduates unsupervised. Twelve years before that, I was
teaching eight-hour workshops with only three breaks. Going back
to my teens, I have fond memories of necking in cars in New Jersey
after drinking too much beer; I never once had to leave a make-out
session to trudge to the men’s. I never had to relieve myself in my
football helmet. Now, I’m an adult, and I do mature things like at-
tend the symphony. I love casual Fridays at the L.A. Philharmon-
ic, except there’s no intermission. I don’t know if you’ve ever sat
through the allegro movement of Brahms’ Third Symphony at high
tide—your brain is hearing it allegrissimo.
Today, before I even got in the car, my daughter says, “Dad,
did you pee?” in much the same tone that Ethel Mertz used on I
Love Lucy when addressing her husband, Fred. When I lived in New
York, invariably the restroom was a treacherous descent into the
basement of the building where the decor, not to mention the fra-
grance, could make you gag. I was in the city for a conference re-
cently, and I freaking danced down those stairs, baby. I’ve also seen
some disturbing bathrooms in Paris. When my wife retires, we plan
to travel the world. What crucial landmarks will I miss? Okay, it
could be worse. I could live in a country with no indoor plumbing.
I’d be outdoors every twenty minutes. Then all the neighbors would
mutter something about a short bladder.
Now, I’m a glass half full kind of guy. Literally. I can put a posi-
tive spin on this, right?
If a crazed gunman decided to take out a restaurant, there’s a
good chance I’d be in the john. If an earthquake or a tornado hit, I
might very well survive within the four walls of a small bathroom.
And, yet there are days when, unaccountably, my bladder stands
tall. We get to the theater, and the lady scanning our tickets tells
us the performance is an hour and forty minutes with no intermis-
sion—code for “Before the lights go down, you old coot, better
take the biggest piss of your life.” And we’re in our seats fifteen
minutes early! I’m thinking I better not even swallow my spit. But
time is suspended. It’s as if the bladder is having an identity crisis—
it thinks it’s Wilt Chamberlain.
Of course there’s the glass half empty view of this. If I’m para-
noid (I am), I might think people are talking about me (they are). If
I were to experience a visitation from an angry spirit at a water-free
fixture, I’d have no proof. If the rapture happened tomorrow and
the streets were full of unmanned SUVs and the sky was on fire—
I’d still have to pee.
If you think of it, my condition has probably kept me out of a
lot of trouble. I couldn’t have scrambled the floor of the Stock Ex-
change, worked my way up, and had anything to do with the finan-
cial crisis. I couldn’t have risked my life as a race car driver; my pit
crew wouldn’t have had time to change tires. I couldn’t have been a
minister; I’d have never gotten through the sermon with a dry cas-
sock—never mind the reading of the Epistle.
At least I can console myself that I’m not the only one who suf-
fers from this. Wikipedia defines urinary frequency without irony
as the need to urinate “more than usual.” All right, it also refer-
ences “urinary urgency.” That seems more specific. I can just imag-
ine some guy in Latvia editing this page each year to increase his
number of times per day.
If I don’t beat him to it.
Once in the eighth grade, I was chosen to travel to Philadelphia
as an alternate to represent my school in a Latin exam. Afterward,
when we toured the Liberty Bell, another student whispered to me
that he had to go so bad that he wished the bell was upside down.
Many times my father would pull over to the side of the road in Sus-
sex County, New Jersey, saying he had to speak to God. One time
near the National Mall in D.C., I was fortunate to find some trees
and low shrubbery, but my cousin startled me when he appeared at
my shoulder. I thought he was a cop!
That’s another thing. I’ve never been arrested for peeing in pub-
lic. Yet. I don’t want to catalogue here all the public parks and golf
courses where I’ve become a missing person. I don’t want to men-
tion the national monuments I’ve desecrated. What’s really disturb-
ing is to be pissing behind a Redwood and have a dog run up and
think you’re part of the tree.
There’s no end to the indignities. I mean, really, is dying a cure
for a short bladder? If I was actually going to Paradise, the seventy-
two virgins would be great—don’t get me wrong—but where’s the
powder room? Or if there were a thousand Buddhas waiting for me
on the other side—with arms outstretched like so many moon flow-
ers—at the 27th Buddha, I’d be asking for the water closet. Or I can
just see myself knocking on Heaven’s Gate and having some angel
say, “Excuse me, sir, restrooms are for customers only.“