I’m no stranger to disrespect. I’ve been verbally insulted, physically assaulted, slandered, abandoned, betrayed, pranked; you name it, I’ve been subjected to it. I thought my self-esteem would be impenetrable by now. And then, I got peed on.
I wish I could say it was a puppy or a baby or some kinky sex thing (not involving a puppy or a baby), but I’m afraid there is no logical explanation for this piss. There was only revenge.
But before I retell one of the most degrading moments of my life, I encourage you to ask yourself; “What would I have done in this situation?” Don’t answer yet! Give me at least a paragraph before you roll out your Jump to Conclusions Mat.
Scene: a dive bar in east Austin, the interior lined with damask wallpaper (possibly vintage, probably Target). A DJ spun the tunes you used to rollerblade to in the 90s. The bar was stocked with both liquor and cigarettes (because cancer’s only cool if you get it before your friends). A two-top in the corner housed an unfinished game of chess (more likely a photo prop than a battle of wits). Out back was a patio full of bearded men singeing their facial hairs with American Spirits. Beyond the smoke sat a row of trailers where stoners prepared food inspired by whatever pun was painted on the side of their truck. And in the restroom, there was me; straddling a urinal and checking my watch as locally-brewed beer, tequila, and H20 poured from my body.
It was a quarter till midnight, and like Cinderella, I was frantically looking for an exit. Unlike Cinderella, my only curse is the inability to have fun in loud, overpopulated, and perspiration-filled social settings. That’s when it hit me; that warm liquid that hasn’t dribbled down my leg since Kindergarten.
I initially blamed myself (as usual), until I noticed a golden torrent attacking my feet like an angry serpent.
“WHAT THE FUCK?” I yelled, jumping around like a cartoon character avoiding gunfire.
My gaze flowed upstream to find the monster responsible for this atrocity, but most of his body was hidden behind a stall wall. All I could see were his eyes peering down at me as his pee melted away my dignity like freshly fallen snow. My humiliation was magnified by his buddy cheering him on every drip of the way from the sink.
So that’s the crime portion of this story. You now have my permission to ask yourself, “What would I have done in this situation?” Got your answer? Good. Follow along and see if we chose the same punishment.
If you’re like me, you did NOT punch through the wall and rip his still-beating heart from his chest. You contemplated it, but your superego overpowered your id (as usual).
Instead, you fled, maintaining a clear line of vision between yourself and the men’s room. You hid in the sea of sweaty Millennials until your target emerged, both hands in the air like he just didn’t care.
“He must pay,” you whispered, still plotting vengeance. You stalked him from afar like the lovable serial killer you’re likened to every time you wear a dark-brown henley.
THAT’S IT, you thought, as he ordered a fresh drink. You placed yourself in his path and began a game of chicken he unknowingly agreed to play. Your inner Braveheart told you to, “Hold.” “HOLD,” he repeated. “HAAAWWLLD,” he howled one final time. “NOW!”
The moment your paths crossed you flapped your left elbow towards his drink as if someone tickled your armpit. You missed. Hellbent on retribution, you circled around like a bull taking a second pass at a matador. The target beckoned his friend to the dance floor by dangling his cup in midair like a cape.
YOU COULDN’T TAKE IT. You lowered your head and charged, sending his drink flying towards the DJ as you plowed through the exit. You stopped once you reached the sidewalk and pulled out your phone to let your friends know you left. And then ...
“THERE HE IS.”
But I was so stealth, you assured yourself.
“You got a problem, BRO?” the pisser asked, cornering you with TWO sidekicks.
“What? No,” you responded, praying that would settle it.
“Then why’d you flip my drink,” he justly argued.
“Did I?” you answered, convincing no one.
“YEAH.”
“Oh, my bad.”
“Yeah, it IS your bad. So what’s your problem?”
You thought about mentioning the piss, but you feared he’d judge you for your passive-aggressive conflict resolution.
“He’s drunk,” one sidekick noted, potentially giving you an out.
You looked at him, and there was a sense of acknowledgment. He knew you were the guy his buddy used as a pee trough. He knew that’s why you spilled his drink. And he didn’t seem to fault you for it.
“He’sh right, shman. I’m drunksh,” you said, overselling the intoxication plea.
“See,” the sidekick responded. “Just come inside and buy my boy a new drink. There. Settled.”
The pisser accepted, gritting his teeth and shadow boxing all the way to the entrance.
“Come on,” said his sidekick, ushering you to the door.
You fumbled through your wallet, suggesting his henchmen go ahead.
“After you,” said the previously silent sidekick.
Great, not only did this guy piss on me, but now I’m going to buy him a drink, you thought, preparing to hand the doorman your driver’s license. And then, as if by divine intervention, a bicyclist parted the entry line with his fixie.
You stumbled out of the way, leaving a good ten feet of separation between you and sidekick #2. You smiled, pivoted, and disappeared into the night like a cowardly Batman.
You don’t know if they tried to find you, and you really don’t care. All you know is a man pissed on your leg, and in turn, you pissed him off by flipping his drink in his face. In your eyes, that’s justice, and one hell of a story.
Written by: Mark Killian
Photograph by: Chris Boyles
