Public Urination

I faked it.

I'd never done it before in my life, but sometimes when a person is presented with an experience so new that it has never before been contemplated, under a circumstance of crushing social pressure, he may just snap as I did. And so I faked it.

I made a little noise of accomplishment, engaged an appropriate hint of a smile, replaced myself, zipped up, and turned and worked my way through the crowd behind me.

A public restroom, especially a public men's restroom, urinal section, is a tough place to get work done. I'd gone into this restroom immediately after a show to handle a protest by my bladder. I had stood in line, shoulder to shoulder with other men and boys for a few minutes, about six or so across and initially another half dozen or so deep; about two-score human males shuffling to the urinals. Conversation, per protocol, was minimal to non-existent. There was the occasional muted exchange between father and son, or perhaps a little nervous noise between friends. But the men's restroom is - for all the auditory "brightness" of its hard surfaces - a reasonably quiet place, like the inside of a cathedral during contemplative time. Little or no eye contact. Heads slightly lowered. Sniffles, scuffling of feet, movement of clothing, the small community sounds of solitary ritual.

And so, on this occasion as a teenager after seeing one of the Pink Panther movies, I inched forward. By the time I finally had access to one of the urinals, I was surrounded by male humanity, each one waiting in varying stages of anxiety for a spot like mine. I unzipped my pants, produced the required body part, and... nothing.

Peeing in public is social convention. It has to be learned. Most men probably recall the kid in kindergarten or first grade who had not yet been taught how to pee in public. You'd see this boy standing at the urinal, buttocks perhaps covered by a shirt tail, or maybe not, his pants down on the floor around his ankles. This was simply the way the boy learned to do it at home. But he wasn't home any longer. He would eventually learn to keep his pants up and perform orthodox public peeing.

Another unwritten rule might be codified "do your business and leave." The pressure to perform and exit is strong, and increases - like air pressure - with the weight of extra mass. I stood at the urinal and could feel the need behind me, the milling anxiety. Judgment, perhaps? Did they know? It was performance time, and I was cracking. I'm not sure exactly why my need wasn't sufficient to carry me through that day, but facts are what they are. I was dry.

But how could anyone know, really? As the normally alloted time, about fifteen to thirty seconds, edged toward the red-zone, I realized that I could emerge from this whole in the minds of mandom by simply appearing to have done what I came to do. And so I did.

I don't remember when I finally, actually went to the bathroom. That doesn't matter. And I've not suffered the same performance-related problem since. But I have had to ask myself a question: With the benefit of experience and better self-understanding, and being a somewhat more confident, mature adult man, if I ended up in the same situation again would I once again fake it?

Damn right I would.