Sweet Pee

A lighthearted romance in which a woman who has never known sexual desire finds that the way to true love is not always a land route. Warning! Strap on your life preserver!

At 9:59, one minute before closing, he came in—thirtyish, weathered, tall, gaunt, scraggly hair and beard, baggy clothing. I thought maybe he was homeless.

He said, "Can I use your bathroom?"

It was the kind of question a homeless person might ask, but on second glance he was clean, and if he wasn't exactly respectable, he wasn't shabby or unkempt—he definitely wasn't homeless. In fact, I might even have thought he was good looking if I ever had thoughts like that.

Which I didn't. I wasn't what you'd call a connoisseur of male looks.

"I'm sorry," I said, "but it's for staff only."

"Oh," he said. "Okay. Sorry to bother you."

And he left, just like that.

I put the incident out of my mind. There was nothing remarkable about it: a man had come in and asked to use the bathroom. He was perfectly polite about it, and when I told him he couldn't he made no trouble. There was nothing to remember. I didn't even mention it to my friend Walt, who has the first shift. We tell each other all the weird stuff that happens in the shop, but this wasn't weird.

And so I was astonished when the man came in again the next night at one minute before closing and asked to use the bathroom in exactly the same words as the night before, but this time with a more assertive demeanor. Demanding, maybe challenging.

"I'm sorry," I said, "but the store policy hasn't changed. The restroom is only for staff."

"What if your customers gotta pee?" he said.

The correct answer to that question was that we got hardly any customers, but that wasn't any of his business, so I just said, "That's the policy—and the law doesn't require us to provide restrooms. We're not a restaurant."

"Sometimes people got an emergency," he said. "Sometimes they really got to go." Argumentative but not angry. A man being reasonable.

"That's the way the owner wants it," I said.

"No exceptions?"

"I'm sorry."

The store was narrow, about fifteen feet from the combined checkout and information desk to Local History on the opposite wall, near the door: at the front it was open space, in the center of which the man stood, relaxed and thoughtful.

This encounter was making me uncomfortable. My phone was sitting on the desk in front of me: I wiggled it to make it show the time. "It's after ten," I said. "I'm supposed to be closing up."

"And you always do what you're supposed to do," he said.

"I try."

"Okay," he said, with a look of earnest concentration on his face, like he was working hard to process my simple statement. It was disconcerting, that look. I didn't know what to make of it until I noticed his hands moving towards his crotch.

"Mister," I said, "can you just—"

He ignored my feeble protest, and all I could do was watch in astonishment as he hooked his left thumb into his belt, unzipped his fly with his right hand, pulled himself out of his pants, and peed ("No, please," I moaned), the yellow stream arcing to splash and puddle on the wooden floor halfway between him and me.

When he was done, he unhurriedly shook himself, tucked himself into his pants, zipped up, and said, "Well, it was good to talk to you."

And with that, he left the store.

I had a mess on my hands. The building that housed the store was old, the floorboards wide, slightly warped in places, and very much in need of refinishing. Most of the time, the floor was charmingly antique—perfect for a bookstore—but now all I could think was that the man's urine was seeping between the floorboards and soaking into the wood. The puddle was already shrinking.

I ran to the front door and locked it, then to a closet in the back wall of the store, where we kept a bucket and mop. I filled the bucket in a big utility sink and lugged that and the mop to the front of the store, where a bathroom smell hung in the air.

I set to work. I was annoyed, of course: this incident would make me late getting home and seriously cut into my evening. But I wasn't angry, any more than the man had been when he'd registered his protest, and I wasn't grossed out. This was one of those odd things that happens in a city, that was all. It had happened, I was dealing with it, and that was that.

Besides, the store policy made no sense. Why shouldn't customers use the restroom? People like to take their time in a bookstore, and the need to pee can hurry them out, costing sales. And isn't it the humane thing to do, to let fellow human beings relieve their bodily discomfort?

These arguments cut no ice with the store's owner, a rich man who, I suspect, kept this money-losing store for tax purposes. As he expected the store to lose money, he didn't care if the need to pee made customers cut their visits short. And he was a severe man, and rigid in his thinking. Kind of a dick, to tell the truth: he didn't care about his customers.

I worked on the puddle, more diluting and spreading it than picking it up, working the water between the floorboards. I couldn't smell the urine anymore, but I wasn't sure if that was because it was clean or because I had stopped being aware of it, like you do when you're exposed to a smell for a long time.

I emptied and rinsed the bucket, rinsed the mop and left it standing in the sink, and left the shop a half hour later than usual. I walked home through the park, and—

Okay, this is a little embarrassing. Halfway through the park there's a grove with a tiny clearing in the middle, hidden from the path. I stepped into that grove, hiked up my dress, pushed down my panties, and squatted to pee. I did this sometimes, and I'm not sure why. It wasn't like I had to—that spot was only five minutes from home. I didn't cultivate excitement in my life, but maybe I needed that little bit of excitement that came with the danger of being caught (which I never was). Or maybe it was something else. That night, anyway, the peeing man was on my mind, and so I did it.

Back at home I heated up a frozen entree, read until bedtime, and fell asleep still thinking about the man. I liked the undramatic way he'd done his deed. He hadn't made a scene—he hadn't raged at me. He had simply pulled himself out and peed, as calmly as if he'd been alone in a restroom instead of in the middle of a shop. There was something to admire in that—something to emulate if you were going to pee in public.

The next morning I debated with myself whether to tell Walt about the man peeing on the floor. The incident was definitely weird, the kind of thing we told each other, but this was maybe too weird—Walt might worry about me, and I didn't want that. Besides, there was something personal about that encounter, though I didn't know the man's name and he didn't know mine, and we had been quite formal with each other. I had made it personal, for me if not for him, by peeing in the park on the way home.

"Quiet day," said Walt as I dropped my purse on the desk.

"Any customers at all?"

"Not a single one. Funny thing, though—I keep imagining I smell urine out here. Do you smell it?"

I sniffed the air. The bathroom smell was faint but unmistakable. "I can't smell anything," I said.

"I must be going crazy," he said, wrinkling his nose.

I said, "Where are you in the Murakami?" Walt and I were both reading the store's single copy of 1Q84, and we lived in terror of someone buying it before we were done with it. It's a big novel—three volumes—so our fear was not unreasonable.

"Two hundred pages ahead of you," he said. "You'll probably catch up with me on your shift."

"Uh huh," I said, eyeing the neatly placed bookmarks in the volume, both exactly square with the edge of the pages and sticking out exactly the same amount. Walt and I were both avid readers, and we both treated books with respect.

He hesitated, then said shyly, "I'd like to talk to you about it. There are confusing things in that book—you probably get it better than I do."

"Sure," I said. Walt and I were often reading the same book, and I liked talking to him about it. We were like a tiny book club.

"I could come around after your shift tonight, and we could go—"

I cut him off. "I'm always tired after my shift." This was a white lie—I was rarely tired. But Walt was always angling to turn our book discussions into dates, and I didn't want that. Not that there was anything wrong with Walt. I liked him as well as I liked anyone in the world, and objectively speaking he was good looking—tall and slender with pleasant features and closely trimmed sandy hair—and he was funny too, and smart, with flashes of insight that I really valued. If only I were attracted to him. I said, "Why don't you stay after your shift tomorrow, and we'll talk."

"Okay," he said, obviously disappointed. But he was used to this. It happened all the time that he made a little run at me and I shut him down. One of these days, I thought, he'd find the right woman, and our friendship would become what it was supposed to be—a friendship.

I was nervous that day, and it was hard to concentrate on my reading. The task of tending customers would have calmed my nerves, but only four people came into the shop during my shift, and only one of them bought anything. By 9:59, the time the man had come in the last two days, I had a tic in my right eye, and I was jumping at the creaks and groans of the old building that housed the shop.

Sure enough, at 9:59 exactly the man came in.

"Don't," I said.

"Don't what?"

"Don't ask to use the bathroom. Don't take your penis out. Don't pee on the floor."

"But I've got to go."

"Why are you doing this?"

"Like I said, I've got to go. Got to make water. Got to wee. Tinkle. Take a whizz. Micturate."

"I mean, why here? It wasn't exactly a walk on the beach, cleaning up your mess."

He frowned. "Sorry. I bet it's not even your rule."

"It's the boss's rule. I don't know his reasoning, but he's very strict about his rules."

"Yeah," he said thoughtfully. "Yeah. It must have sucked, having to clean up some random dude's water."

It wasn't so bad, actually, but I wasn't about to admit that. "Why don't you just go, mister? It's closing time, and I want to get home."

"Yeah," he said again. "I ought to let you go home."

Finally, I thought, this nightmare is about to end.

"But there's a principle at stake here," he said. "We can't let assholes like your boss run our lives. We've got to stand up for truth and decency and the right of law-abiding citizens to take a leak."

Once again he reached for his crotch.

"Wait!" I squeaked, holding my hands out. "Wait! You don't have to do it . . . you know, on the floor."

Holding his zipper tab between thumb and forefinger, he said, "C'mon. We've got to stand together in solidarity against shitheads that want to force us to hold it."

"Wait!" I said again. I kept a one-pint Ball jar in the desk, under the terminal, for water, since there was no drinking fountain in the store and I didn't like bottled water. I held it up. "Here, use this."

"Oh," he said, raising his eyebrows. "So I can't use the bathroom, but I can pee in a jar out here in the store."

"I've got a lot of rules to follow or enforce," I said. "No credit for purchases under five dollars. No leaving the desk untended for more than three minutes. No eating at the desk. Always wear a dress."

"It's a lot of rules," he said sympathetically.

"Tell me about it. And breaking even one of them could get me fired. But there's no rule that says I can't let a customer pee in a jar. Even out here."

He smiled and stepped forward to take the jar. "You know your stuff."

"He made up a booklet," I said. "I read it front to back."

"I guess you like to read," he said, unzipping his fly and pulling out his penis.

"That's why I don't want to lose this job," I said, watching the Ball jar fill up with yellow liquid, foaming at little at the top. "It quiet here, the place is full of books, and I like to read."

"I walk by here a lot," he said, setting the jar on the desk and putting himself away. "And I see you in here, and you're always reading. I figured you were a college student or something."

"I quit college after my freshman year. All the schoolwork got in the way of my reading."

"I see." He zipped himself up. "You know, when I came in here the first time, I thought you were an asshole. But you're not an asshole at all. You want to go get a drink?"

"You mean like a date?"

"Yeah, like a date. You're real pretty, and you're not an asshole."

"I don't date," I said.

"Does it get in the way of your reading?"

"No," I said. "I just don't want men thinking they could ever get with me. I don't do that. I'm asexual."

"So, uh, you don't feel any attraction for men?"

"None at all." I added, "It's not you" by way of reassuring him.

"Or women?"

"Not even a little."

"Sheep? dogs? ponies?"

"Ick."

"Just books."

"It's not a sexual thing. It's what I do."

"A compulsion."

"Maybe a little. I'll read anything. If I haven't got a book, then a brochure, a cereal box, a care label. Whatever's handy. If you walk by here a lot, does that mean you live around here?"

"Right around the corner on Fifth," he said.

"Then why do you have to use this restroom?"

"I don't like my bathroom," he said. "I like public bathrooms."

"A compulsive thing."

"Maybe a little," he smiled.

I understood that, given my history of surreptitious public peeing. But still. "Well, ours isn't public."

"I get that." He glanced towards the door. "Well, I guess I better get going."

"You can take that with you," I said, nodding at the Ball jar.

"Nah—you'll want your jar," he said, "in case another customer has to pee."

He left, and I was alone in an empty store with a pint jar of urine. It was filled nearly to the top; islands of foam drifted on the surface, a lazy archipelago.

I went to the door, locked it, and turned off the "Open" sign. Then I returned to the desk and picked up the jar. It was warm—body temperature. I found that strange, and it was strange to have this piece of that odd man still with me. I imagined it had a consciousness, and it was grinning at the foolishly rigid way I enforced my boss's rules.

Well, it wouldn't grin much longer. I picked it up and carried it to the back of the store, through the little stockroom full of boxes, and into the restroom beyond, where I opened the lid of the toilet, meaning to empty the jar into it.

But I hesitated, momentarily unwilling to dispose of the man's pee. I couldn't say why. Maybe it was that vague impression of the sentience of this pint of yellow liquid—it would feel like killing something to flush it away. Whatever the reason, I set the jar on a narrow shelf in front of the mirror and, lifting my skirt and lowering my panties, sat on the toilet.

I couldn't pee. It was that damned Ball jar, I thought. I stared at it resentfully. "You're just a jar of pee," I said. "You can't see me. You have no consciousness." But still I couldn't do it.

Disgusted, I stood up, arranged my clothing, and carried the jar out to the stockroom, where I set it on a cardboard box. I returned to the restroom and, to my great relief, had no difficulty emptying my bladder.

That done, I returned to the stockroom and picked up the jar again. It was still warm. I sniffed it: it smelled like pee. I still didn't want to pour it into the toilet.

"You're being a fool," I said to myself.

And it was true—I was being a fool. But I took the jar back to the desk, put on the lid I kept with the jar underneath, slipped it into my purse, and took it home, where I slept with it on my nightstand.

In the morning the jar was cold, and the liquid it contained was revolting—a dead thing. I carried it into the bathroom, emptied it into the toilet, and flushed it down before sitting on the toilet myself. I carried the jar to the kitchen, put it and the lid in the dishwasher, and took out a clean jar and lid, which I put in my purse.

I tidied my apartment, spent the morning reading, and had lunch, then set out for the store. Walt and I chatted a while about 1Q84, but I was distracted, thinking about the man. He probably wouldn't come back. We'd had our encounter, and our relationship, such as it was, had run its course. The thought comforted me, but at the same time I was a tiny bit disappointed. My life was pretty uneventful, and the man had been an event. My thoughts kept drifting back to the night before. For some reason, I found myself missing that Ball jar full of pee and regretting that I'd flushed it away. I remembered the warmth of it in my hand and its smell. I remembered the way the urine had jetted out of the man's penis, making a whirlpool in the jar as he filled it. As often as I put the image out of my mind, it kept coming back.

If the man did make another visit tonight, would that be so bad? I knew how to handle him now; everything would be fine. Anticipation mixed with dread carried me past Walt's mild flirtations, through the tedium of my shift, broken here and there by a customer needing help, and on to closing time.

At 9:55 I closed my book, carried it back to the fiction section, and put it on the shelf, then returned to the desk, where the Ball jar was sitting, half full of water. I drank the water and was about to drop the jar into my purse when a strange impulse overtook me. I carried the jar and its lid to the bathroom, filled it with pee, put the lid on, and carried it, my poor replacement for the one I had thrown away, back into the store.

Where the man was standing in the middle of the open space.

He said, "Can I—" and stopped.

His eyes fell on the jar in my hand. My face heated up: I must have been completely scarlet.

He said, "Is that—"

"It's mine," I said, not wanting him to think I had kept his pee for twenty-four hours. Not that it was that much better that I'd peed in the jar myself.

He held out his hand. "Can I see?"

I came within arm's reach of him—the closest together we had ever been—and handed it to him.

"It's warm," he said, hefting it. "You just filled it now."

"Yeah."

He unscrewed the lid, which he handed to me, and sniffed the jar. "Nice. Do you have any plans for this?"

"No," I said. "I don't know why I did it."

"Maybe it's that you liked the feel of the warm heavy jar in your hand. It's not like holding a jar of jam, or anything else."

"No," I admitted. "It's not."

"Can I have this?"

"Sure. But it's going to get cold and nasty."

"No, it won't," he said, then put the jar to his lips and drank it. No, he chugged it like an undergraduate with a beer. I watched in astonishment as nearly a full pint of my urine disappeared into him, watched his Adams' apple bob, listened to the quiet sounds of his swallowing.

When he finally lowered the empty jar, I said, "You just—"

"Yes," he said. "I did. Thank you." Then he opened his fly again, pulled out his penis, and filled the jar, which he handed to me.

"Fair is fair," he said.

"Um thanks," I said, and put the lid on as he put himself away.

He said, "Are you sure you don't want to get that drink?"

"No," I said. "No thanks."

"Maybe another time," he said.

"I don't know," I said, holding the warm jar in my hand.

When he was gone, I set down the jar, locked the door, turned off the sign, and returned to the desk to pack my things in my bag. That done, I stared at the jar.

"This is stupid," I said. I was being visited every night by a crazy man obsessed with urine and urination. I had just watched him down a whole jar of my pee. What in the world did he expect me to do with a jar of his?