Remember When I
Peed on Myself?

Four of us gathered at Tampopo, on a sunny Tuesday afternoon to take advantage of a locally renowned sushi happy hour. We stuffed our faces with Tempura rolls, shimi saba, and yellowtail nigiri, ordering more than thought it possible to eat; yet each vowed inwardly to finish every bite no matter the consequence.

An hour later, as if rehearsed, four chairs scooted back from the restaurant table. The harmony of sixteen wooden legs against a tile floor preceded a collective sigh of satisfaction. My sense of tranquility did not last, however, for a moment later, I gentle pressure on the wall of my bladder reminded me that I had an unbreakable appointment in the men's room. Three and a half steps later, I had my pants unzipped as I stood at a toilet behind a door marked "gentlemen."

Midstream, the unthinkable happened. The thin wedge of white plastic known popularly as the toilet seat, normally held up by some unseen force, inexplicably surrendered to gravity and dropped like a guillotine toward my exposed dude stick. Choosing in an instant between certain pain and unknown consequences, I did what any man would do: I dodged the rod-slicer decisively.  

I raised my head as if caught in the aftermath of a car wreck. I had jumped no less than a meter from the toilet, flinching at the loud noise the porcelain punisher made as its lid crashed down. I still had my pants open and had halted my urine stream as much from instinct as will. But the action has come too late; some time in the midst of the occurrence, I had managed to pee on my un-tucked collar shirt. Inspecting the damage, it was less a squirt than a burst, like someone had tossed a small water balloon at my midsection.

I took off the shirt, rinsed it with water, and looked around for my drying options. I have always mistrusted air powered hand driers but, on this day, I would have given my right eye for such a device. Instead, I found only paper towels and wondered openly how many hours it would take to dry the button-up with a handful of one-ply brown pieces of paper.

The situation impossible, I folded my collar shirt and walked out to my dining companions.

"I just pissed on my freaking shirt," I said, too baffled to feign embarrassment.

"You did what?"

"I pissed on my shirt."

I explained the situation, pausing to highlight my lack of choices as I dodged the seat. My compatriots agreed reluctantly, eyeballing me with some suspicion. We hurriedly paid the check and departed. It crossed my mind to demand the manage put up some sort of sign warning restroom users of the deadly toilet seat, but it occurred to me that this demand would require an explanation ... an explanation I was unwilling to provide.