ABOUT LAST WEEKEND III: THE SEARCH FOR SPORT, PART II: INTERMISSION

LET’S TAKE A BATHROOM BREAK BEFORE CONTINUING WITH THE STORY.

Sunday, October 16th, 2005

This time, it wasn’t a fire alarm that woke K. and I up, but drumbeats in the distance. They started out as small, muffled sounds, but gradually became louder, to the point they were unavoidable.

I had been lying in bed, my forehead arched in deliberate thought about the pounding sound from the street, when K. bounded into the room and said to me, “I hear drums outside.”

“Yeah, I hear them, too,” I said. My eyes were bleary and hanging low.

“You want to go see where it’s coming from?” K. asked. The idea actually sounded quite appealing. I jolted awake, practically leaping into my pants. “Yeah, let’s go,” I said. Then out the door we went.

The weather was crisp that morning (it might have been early afternoon, technically, since K. and I had managed to sleep until twelve). As we walked past small crowds of people gathered along Brighton Ave, I began wishing I had put on more than a jacket over my shirt. I stuffed my icy hands into my pockets and huddled against K. as the cold wind enveloped us. At least the sleepiness was gradually fading away.

As we walked past the parking lot beside the auto parts store, the drumming got really loud, and we could see a small marching band through the chain link fence. Wearing the colors of their school, they practiced marching in-step with the beat. K., having done that type of extracurricular activity herself, was particularly interested. Also compelling to her, however, were the various runners in their bright sweats. After all, K. did that sort of extracurricular activity in high school, too.

During my own four years before college, I briefly wrote for the campus paper. The only other non-academic activity I remember taking part in was holding my bladder for long periods of time. American High's facilities were absolutely horrendous, and to enter any one of those grease pits was risking certain death. Now, I don't want to brag about the fortitude of my bladder, but I drank a lot of water the night before the parade. I went to bed without having to go visit the latrine, and hadn't even made a pit stop before leaving the house for this adventurous errand. Of course, it was now noon. Did I mention that I drank a lot of water? I'm sure you can guess where this is heading.

Let this be a lesson to you, kids: Never embark on a quest first-thing in the morning without tending to your bodily needs. At that very moment, standing on Brighton Avenue, I felt a strong need, but had no place wherein to tend it.

So the liquid in my bladder began pressing more and more persistently against the barricaded door which was its only barrier to freedom. Meanwhile, K. gathered information about the marathon runners, and the overall event itself. Turns out the race had already been run (The proceeds went to a foundation to fight breast cancer, I later found out). Still on the day’s agenda, however, was a parade set to march right up Brighton, turn at the nearby park, then march back down Commonwealth Avenue. We had fifteen minutes before the start, so we walked up Brighton to look for a good place to watch.

We had plenty of time to find an ideal perspective, and just as much time to grab breakfast somewhere. At this point, my pelvis felt like castle-dwellers trying to hold back an invading army at the gate. But I figured, we’re going to breakfast now. There will probably be a bathroom, so the problem will get solved. In hindsight, I should have just told K. about my pressing need to urinate. Since she had no idea what I was going through, she took her time considering which place to go eat. This, however, led to funny scenes like the one in front of the Brazilian diner.

I had pointed the place out, then said to K., rather excitedly, “Hey, why don’t we go to that one?” As K. perused the menu posted by the door, I swung the entrance open, only to be rebuffed by a sign that said, “Restroom for customers only.”

After letting the door swing shut, I looked at K., who was still thoughtfully surveying the specials of the house. True, the situation in my bladder was growing more desperate by the second. Down below, the various liquid molecules were organizing, announcing their impatience.

“What do we want?”
“TOILET!”
“When do we want it?”
“NOW!!!”

But I figured, just give K. another moment, and maybe she’ll say, “This place looks alright.” Then we’d go into the Brazilian restaurant, and I could immediately excuse myself from the table, find the nearest “banheiro,” and “alivie minha bexiga.” So I waited. I spun around in excited little circles in the middle of the sidewalk, while I waited. I’m sure it only felt like a very long time. At length, however, K. turned away from the menu, then said to me,

“No, let’s try someplace else.”

At this point, I told her that I urgently needed to use the bathroom. K. responded with the appropriate seriousness, and we hurried to the Twin Donut shop located further up the street. We got a table next to a window, plus menus. Then I excused myself and went downstairs to use Twin Donut's bathroom, which was surprisingly clean. When I returned, I sat down and cheerfully flipped through the menu. I felt like a great weight had been lifted, if not from my shoulders, then some other important part of my anatomy. But wouldn’t you know it? Almost immediately, I performed a gaffe that almost ruined the morning for both of us.

That, however, is a story for next time.