Department of Bladder Adjudication

Urination is a topic not normally discussed in polite society. However, I have serious doubts that those of you who read The Harmonica Chronicle comprise any part of polite society. And anyway, birds do it, bees do it, let's all do it, let's talk about pee.

The reason that this topic is so frequent and urgent, and sometimes burning and painful, is that, as a woman, I experience urinary emergencies on nearly a daily basis. No matter my fluid intake; I can consume a bottle cap's worth of Fresca on a road trip and, an hour later, will be squirming in the car begging the driver to find the nearest Sheetz, at which point I will dash from the car into the store, not even stopping to admire the lovely and full-stocked displays of Doritos and other roadside snacks. I save that for after going, when I very sensibly purchase a Diet Coke or a bottle of water to accompany me until we reach our destination two hours away. Naturally, the cycle begins anew, but, like after giving birth, the experience of urination after a near breakdown in the urethral seal releases a feel-good hormone that makes you forget the whole anxiety-provoking, whimpering, and crotch-holding experience ever occurred. It almost makes you want to have to desperately pee again. It's like Bladder Heroin, Horse for the soul.

This is probably why, on a two-and-a-half hour trip to Philadelphia to negotiate several parking and towing tickets, I chased the dragon and consumed at least a thimbleful of soda, not thinking about the likely consequences. Somewhere in space and time, a urinary Cassandra shook her head in prescient fear and bewilderment.

The Department of Parking Adjudication is a dirty and non-descript room with plastic chairs and a series of tiny, dingy offices. As I sat there in the main room, I could feel that telltale pinch and tingle in the general vicinity of my bladder, telling me that I would soon have to urinate. Given that my appointment was at 11:00, and the Department of Parking Adjudication notice very strictly admonished that one must make one's appointment on time or have it cancelled until further notice, I very reasonably assumed that the Department would keep up its end of the bargain and honor its appointment time with me (one of my foibles is thinking the best of both people and large bureaucracies). I decided I could wait until after my appointment to pee.

However, as the clock neared 11:30, I realized that the situation was now urgent. I got up from my seat and asked one of the "workers" if I could use their restroom. "No," the employee said very sternly. "We have no public restroom." I decided to reason with her. "But I really have to go to the bathroom," I said. "If I go somewhere else, there is a chance that I will miss my appointment." "That's too bad," she said, her sternness morphing into a certain degree of schadenfreudous glee. "We have NO PUBLIC RESTROOM." My reason turned to utter desperation in the blink of an eye. "Pleeeeassse," I whined. "I REALLY HAVE TO GO." "This," I declared, "IS AN EMERGENCY!" "NO!" she nearly shouted. "Okay, then," I pouted, "I'll just soil myself right over there on that chair." The evil woman shrugged. "That's your choice."

Another employee, who seemed to possess an amount of sympathy equivalent to that which one could float in a contact lens, reported to me flatly that I could use the restroom at the mall next door. "But," she warned, "If you're not back in time for your appointment, we'll have to reschedule." I had made my appointment in June, after the "system" hanging up on me several times after 10 minutes on hold and a series of certified letters. It was now the middle of September, and we had taken a two-and-a-half hour trip up from DC for me to reduce my (in my opinion, fraudulent) fees from over $200 to a more reasonable sum (I *honestly* did not get those tickets. Really). However, I had to pee so bad that I decided to chance it. My gait encumbered because I had to keep my legs close together in order not to burst, I hobbled over to the security guard to ask him where the mall restroom could be located. "It's just through that door," he pointed, "But I 'm about to lock the doors for lunch, and once the doors are locked, you can't get back in until 1:00." "Not let me back in until 1:00!" I practically shouted. "But I have to PEE! This is a HUMAN FUNCTION, and you're telling me that even though you will be standing in this very spot when I return, you will refuse to let me back in, as though I committed a voluntary default on my appointment." "Yep," he confirmed. This was getting surreal. I momentarily forgot my bladder as I briefly considered that perhaps I was getting Punk'd. I looked for cameras, but the only ones that were spying on me were the standard issue security cameras mounted on the wall in the Lair of Evil, or as they called it, the Check-In Desk. "You can't get back in," he repeated stubbornly.

I seriously, honestly, very nearly started crying. My eyes filled with tears as I considered the trials of trying to get this appointment in the first place and how we made this trip specifically to come here. I limped back to my seat and tried not to sob, my legs crossed and my hands as politely located as they could be near my crotch, given the circumstances. The Evil Bitch (and I do not use that term often or lightly) behind the counter nudged her co-"worker" and seriously, I am not making this up, pointed at me and laughed. If there hadn't been a complicated series of locks on the door leading to the office niches, I would have gone back there and peed right on her Payless shoe.

I had planned a cogent, almost lawyer-like argument to make with the Parking Adjudicator (aka Satan's Minion) that I thought would reduce my fines to zero; however, I knew that I now would be reduced to a shaking and stammering puddle of (oh! don't say that word puddle! Anything having to do with water will make me pee!), okay, a blob of (oh! a blob is a liquid! A viscous liquid, but a liquid nonetheless!), alright then, a tree stump of defeat and anxiety. When I was finally called for my appointment at noon, I followed "Rafael" (I doubted they used their real names for fear of retribution) with my papers to his dank office-like hole and fairly whimpered through my now pathetic explanation. "Okay, then," Rafael opined, "We'll reduce your fine to $60; you can pay in the next office." I didn't want to delay my escape any further and agreed to the punishment.

The fee-paying portion of this hellish journey occurred, thankfully, rather quickly, and, with receipt in hand, I made a beeline for the restroom in the mall across the street, veering through oncoming traffic in a Frogger-like manner. However, the security guard had, I am sure purposely, misguided me about where the bathroom was, and I tore through the place looking for a department store that would have a restroom. In Strawbridge's, I found my rapture, but I first had to make my way through a labyrinthine series of swimwear and petite separates. I found the restroom. I peed, and it was good.

This is not the first time that I had a remarkable urinary emergency. One Independence Day, we, as a group of utter imbeciles, decided that it would be a good idea to take in the fireworks on the National Mall. I had laughed heartily at my roommate because she had taken a backpack, in which she had stuffed emergency provisions, including a towel and toilet paper. "Toilet paper!" I guffawed. "What, are we going to TP the Washington Monument?" "You'll see," she snapped, "and you'll thank me for it." After the fireworks, I of course realized that it had been a mistake to smuggle a vodka tonic to the festivities in my opaque Brita bottle. Struggling through the massive crowd, I needed to find a restroom immediately. However, all of the businesses on the routes that fireworks-attendees would be likely to take had signs in their windows warning that there was no public restroom. Figuring that I could just purchase something at Starbucks and win access to the toilet, I decided (again, very sensibly) to get a beverage. When we got there, I discovered that everyone had the same idea, and the line snaked down the sidewalk. I suddenly understood what the towel was for as I dashed into an alley, dropped trou, and squatted behind a dumpster. As my flow reached the point of no return, I was startled by the skittering and screeching of rats running between my legs and over my shoes. I screamed. This, of course, attracted my male roommate, who came running around the corner to see if I was okay. He viewed me there, vulnerable and exposed, squatting with vermin congregating in my midst and nearly up my keister.

We never spoke of it again.

Of course, there are other stories too, like the time I was 13 and an emergency propelled me and my parents to seek a toilet in Times Square when it was still full of porn. I urinated in a toilet that was sunk into the floor, surrounded by posters of naked women in compromising poses and substances of unknown provenance on the floor. And then there was the scary time I begged to be let into the back room of a 7-11, with my emergence from the restroom prompting an employee to block my exit from the back and leer at me menacingly. As short as I am, I can be forceful, and I got him to move out of my way; however, I learned that my small bladder could get me raped or killed.

I am at home now, safe and sound, with a bathroom paces away and a water-filled Nalgene bottle at my side. It is one of the most comforting feelings in the world, to take in a beverage and know that you will be safe from the vicissitudes of restroom policies and generally mean people. As you can probably guess, you'll have to excuse me now. I gotta pee.