They call me MISTER Public Urination
On one of my last nights drinking in Iowa City, my friend Mike and I were walking along Linn Street to the Foxhead. We took a shortcut down an alleyway and through an office parking lot. Mike said, “We better hurry up. I gotta piss.”
I looked around. The area was dark. A dilapidated, wooden garage sat alongside the cracked alleyway.
“Just go over there behind the garage. I’ll wait,” I said.
“No!” Mike said. “No way. I’m not doing that. I’m not like you, Mister Public Urination.”
I laughed. I’d gotten a lot of flack about moving and thought the name calling was an extension of it.
“What are you talking about?” I said.
“Man, you will piss anywhere. You have no shame. I’m not gonna piss behind somebody’s garage like you would.”
I was laughing so hard I had to stop walking.
Mike did have a point. I am notorious for finding the dark, hidden corners of the outside world when I have the urge and am far from an available toilet. It was common after a night of drinking downtown. While living in my apartment on Burlington, it was sometimes necessary to run out to the parking lot and sneak behind the dumpster when the bathroom was occupied.
Since the powers that be have deemed public urination taboo, there’s an air of excitement in searching for the right spot. It’s coupled with an intense fear of being caught while relieving yourself. Afterwards, when you step out of the bushes or reappear from a dark pathway, it’s a pleasure to know no one saw. You stared danger in the face. I love that feeling.
Famous public urinators include Iowa basketball legend Chris Kingsbury. After one of his renowned downtown binges in Iowa City, Kingsbury was arrested for taking a leak in the Holiday Inn parking ramp. The Press-Citizen placed the story front page, above the fold.
A couple nights ago I was faced with a dilemma. I walked to the Togo’s Great Sandwich shop on Ocean Avenue. It’s a two or three mile walk, and I wanted to walk around downtown before heading back to my place. I bought a medium sized cup, which is comparable to what a large was ten years ago. I filled it with Mountain Dew (the nectar of the Gods), sat on a bench outside, and wrote in my notebook.
Before then I usually drove to Togo. I was able to drink two or three cups while I wrote, then drive home in minutes when I was finished. But not this time. When I sat down I thought to myself, “You can’t drink as much this time. You’ll have to pace yourself.” I knew — by one of those damned gut instincts of mine — I’d be halfway home and have to, as my dad always said, “piss like a race horse.”
Sure enough, after starting my trek back, I felt the urge being to grow. A walk downtown would have to wait until next time. Togo doesn’t have bathrooms, and no business in Santa Cruz has public restrooms. I had two options: 1) Hold it until I got home, or 2) Find a dark, secluded place and water the flowers.
As I walked home in the dark (the street lighting here sucks, by the way) I looked for the perfect spot to make a detour and empty myself. But I had no luck. I couldn’t find any small nook or corner hidden from view. I was close to home and decided to hold it. Nonetheless, my eyes continued to rove the area for an ideal spot to disappear into the dark.
In my hand was my medium sized cup. I filled it before leaving Togo. Once or twice I couldn’t resist the urge to suck on the straw. Drinking more isn’t the best thing to do when you have to pee; you don’t add more fuel to a fire you want to extinguish. But I didn’t think it could hurt.
I approached a yard fenced by a tall hedgerow and thought I could slip in and not be suspected. But as I passed and looked through the opening cut into the wall of foliage, I saw a party happening in the living room. Everyone was wearing orange, Bozo hair wigs, and a woman was riding piggyback on a man with no shirt.
“Um,” I heard myself say. “I don’t think so.”
After turning onto my street, I gave up all hope. I had to make it home. When I got to the door I was in such a hurry I fumbled the keys and they fell to my feet. I put down my cup and backpack, took the key in my hand, opened the door, and ran for the bathroom. I left the front door open, and retrieved my Mountain Dew and backpack after I’d finished. I thought about calling Mike. He would have been proud of me.
I looked around. The area was dark. A dilapidated, wooden garage sat alongside the cracked alleyway.
“Just go over there behind the garage. I’ll wait,” I said.
“No!” Mike said. “No way. I’m not doing that. I’m not like you, Mister Public Urination.”
I laughed. I’d gotten a lot of flack about moving and thought the name calling was an extension of it.
“What are you talking about?” I said.
“Man, you will piss anywhere. You have no shame. I’m not gonna piss behind somebody’s garage like you would.”
I was laughing so hard I had to stop walking.
Mike did have a point. I am notorious for finding the dark, hidden corners of the outside world when I have the urge and am far from an available toilet. It was common after a night of drinking downtown. While living in my apartment on Burlington, it was sometimes necessary to run out to the parking lot and sneak behind the dumpster when the bathroom was occupied.
Since the powers that be have deemed public urination taboo, there’s an air of excitement in searching for the right spot. It’s coupled with an intense fear of being caught while relieving yourself. Afterwards, when you step out of the bushes or reappear from a dark pathway, it’s a pleasure to know no one saw. You stared danger in the face. I love that feeling.
Famous public urinators include Iowa basketball legend Chris Kingsbury. After one of his renowned downtown binges in Iowa City, Kingsbury was arrested for taking a leak in the Holiday Inn parking ramp. The Press-Citizen placed the story front page, above the fold.
A couple nights ago I was faced with a dilemma. I walked to the Togo’s Great Sandwich shop on Ocean Avenue. It’s a two or three mile walk, and I wanted to walk around downtown before heading back to my place. I bought a medium sized cup, which is comparable to what a large was ten years ago. I filled it with Mountain Dew (the nectar of the Gods), sat on a bench outside, and wrote in my notebook.
Before then I usually drove to Togo. I was able to drink two or three cups while I wrote, then drive home in minutes when I was finished. But not this time. When I sat down I thought to myself, “You can’t drink as much this time. You’ll have to pace yourself.” I knew — by one of those damned gut instincts of mine — I’d be halfway home and have to, as my dad always said, “piss like a race horse.”
Sure enough, after starting my trek back, I felt the urge being to grow. A walk downtown would have to wait until next time. Togo doesn’t have bathrooms, and no business in Santa Cruz has public restrooms. I had two options: 1) Hold it until I got home, or 2) Find a dark, secluded place and water the flowers.
As I walked home in the dark (the street lighting here sucks, by the way) I looked for the perfect spot to make a detour and empty myself. But I had no luck. I couldn’t find any small nook or corner hidden from view. I was close to home and decided to hold it. Nonetheless, my eyes continued to rove the area for an ideal spot to disappear into the dark.
In my hand was my medium sized cup. I filled it before leaving Togo. Once or twice I couldn’t resist the urge to suck on the straw. Drinking more isn’t the best thing to do when you have to pee; you don’t add more fuel to a fire you want to extinguish. But I didn’t think it could hurt.
I approached a yard fenced by a tall hedgerow and thought I could slip in and not be suspected. But as I passed and looked through the opening cut into the wall of foliage, I saw a party happening in the living room. Everyone was wearing orange, Bozo hair wigs, and a woman was riding piggyback on a man with no shirt.
“Um,” I heard myself say. “I don’t think so.”
After turning onto my street, I gave up all hope. I had to make it home. When I got to the door I was in such a hurry I fumbled the keys and they fell to my feet. I put down my cup and backpack, took the key in my hand, opened the door, and ran for the bathroom. I left the front door open, and retrieved my Mountain Dew and backpack after I’d finished. I thought about calling Mike. He would have been proud of me.
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