Straining At Work

So busy concentrating on whatever I’m doing I don’t notice my molars are floating until the world turns yellow. I tear myself away and trot down the hall to the Men’s Room, unzipping even before the door shuts behind me. By the time I pull up to the urinal I’m poised and ready……

….and nothing happens. Goddammit! Not THIS again!

I grit my teeth, close my eyes, and force myself to breathe slowly. It’ll go, I know it. I’m infection free, nothing malfunctioning, no piss hard-on. I just held it back too long. Gimme another 30 seconds here. I visualize elaborate rococo fountains and splashing water. (Anita Ekberg is barred from this scene.) I imagine the smell of low tide, gulls crying overhead. Dram by dram the warm waters snake toward the welcoming enamel ……

The Crackberry starts vibrating in its holster. Shit! Not NOW! I whip out the phone to see who or what it is. At that very moment –ironically, thanks to the phone’s vibration — the flow begins. I look at the phone but I can’t focus on its tiny screen. Still grasping it desperately, I let go my trickling dick to fumble around in my pockets — carefully; don’t wanna splash the boots — for my glasses, which aren’t there! Of course not — they’re perched atop my fool-ass head! I grab for them, knocking them to the floor. Shit! Gotta answer anyway!

Aaaaaaahhhhhhhhello? I groan, peeing for real at last.

Nothing. Dead. One doesn’t get the strongest reception in the bathroom. Hello hello? I listen intently, the stream straightening out now (knew it would be alright).

Just as I give up and reach to place the phone back on my hip, the door opens and a colleague strides in to use the next urinal. He sees me working the phone back in, and eyes the reading glasses on the floor. “Multi-tasking?” he asks, dryly. Then farts with authority. “Sorry.” Grins. “Me, too.”

Don’t make me laugh, I’ll spray the walls. I finish, zip up, gingerly lift my glasses off the floor, and head for the sink when it dawns on me.

That was you calling, wasn’t it?

He squints my way. “Why would I call? I know where to find you.” Grins again, and I see he’s trying to force another gurgler. Hope he ruptures his prostate. Or shits himself.

It was him. Devious rat bastard. I’ reminded, in what has to be the flashback of the young century, of Ernie Morrow in Catcher of the Rye, whose mother Holden Caulfield meets on the train, and remembers as

….doubtless[ly] the biggest bastard that ever went to Pencey, in the whole crumby history of the school. He was always going down the corridor, after he’d had a shower, snapping his soggy old wet towel at people’s asses. That’s exactly the kind of guy he was.

Nah, he’s okay. Just post-urinal depression on my part. I return to my cave-like office to pick phallic stalactites off the ceiling.

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7 Responses to Straining At Work

  1. J.D. Salinger says:

    Quoting my work without securing prior permission — which I would never give — is a violation of copyright laws. Please remove the quoted section immediately.

  2. Camiel Toe says:

    Better he should cut loose in the bathroom than on the elevator. I work with a bean-eating bastard who makes our elevators unusable every day after lunch. I walk the steps now — 5 flights. May he fart blood and die.

  3. New Here says:

    Thanks for sharing.

  4. "Esq." a Lawyer says:

    Tell Salinger to bite you. Nicely, of course.

    Fact is, I loved Catcher in the Rye and all his other work, and wish there was more. reportedly there is, but he won’t publish anything. He’s up in his 80s now, a total recluse. He could be dead and nobody knows it, but when word gets out, there should be a significant body of work available (once my colleagues the lawyers are removed from the picture). I only hope I live that long.

  5. Ms Calabaza says:

    Esq:
    Yeah, I love Salinger too. He’s still kicking in a little town outside Concord, NH. His two kids are gonna make a lot of money when he kicks the bucket…

    Squatty: you are Holden Caulfield. Now everything falls into place.

  6. Hose B says:

    What is it about these guys who think the perfect place for conversation is beside you at the piss bar? If I don’t concentrate when I tap a kidney something goes south — a wet hand, a sprayed wall, a complete shut-down, etc.. Squattle, you shoulda turned sideways and soaked his shoes. See how good he is at aiming his stream while he’s dancing.

  7. Pingback: Fine Art (abbreviation) « Obalesque

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