Thursday, November 3, 2011

This is what happens when I am left alone to pee.

I’m stuck at a urinal.
The dark matter expelling from my anteater stinks like vodka, or at least the smell I associate with vodka. A smell wedged somewhere between sour milk and the fart of a child who hasn’t yet moved on to solids. It’s entirely illogical, but so is sleeping with a kitchen knife under your pillow on lonely nights, or buying a People magazine from a service station at 4am with money you could have spent on a Paddle Pop.

So my urine is spilling and swirling down four holes that look as ominous as the pursed rear of a stray cat. It’s spilling and splashing and swirling and creating a sort of white wash. It reminds me of long summers body boarding in Merimbula. Being driven into the shoreline over and over until it was time to retrieve a Vegemite sandwich and juice box from the esky. Sucking on the straw until it made a slurping sound, then continuing to suck until being scolded and reminded of the dangers of going beyond the yellow flags. Cubba, don’t go past the yellow flags. And stop that slurping noise!
The beautiful memory doesn’t stay for long, quickly receding back into my ocean-brain. Back into vast amounts of water, filled with dangerous sharks and horny dolphins. Dolphins that pack-raped their own, practicing Japanese wax torture on the weak, before expelling their own fluids; a white wash synchronised with my own.

Look down. Some of the dark matter has, in all the chaos of spilling and swirling, ricocheted onto my khaki pants. The urine bullets are dark and noticeable, like a Batman symbol in the clear night sky. I bet this never happens to the Illuminati.
Calm. If people in the restaurant stare tell them you’re a descendent of the Tupi Indian, an extremely hygienic people. Then further explain how the Tupi washed 12 times a day, and burnt their dead, then crushed their bones into dust and blew them across a –

I catch myself and laugh at the ridiculousness of my standing there.
How long have I been here? I mumble.
I turn to my right to find a proper gentleman looking at me as if I were the first woman he’d seen naked. He doesn’t answer my question. Instead, he zips, bypasses the hand basin and pulls on the door. A roar of laughter and conversation and orders being shouted inside the restaurant echoes around the bathroom for a few moments and then disappears, leaving me with my thoughts again.
A new man enters and I apologise in advance without even beginning to explain.
I zip, bypass the hand basin and burst back into the roar of conversation and laughter and orders being shouted.
As I sit down at the table for two, her hand finds my stained thigh. Our eyes are wide in the darkness of the fancy sushi bar, and I realise I’ve found the only girl who may begin to comprehend the trauma of pissing on your pants. One of my tribe, a Tupi.