Spent a few minutes arguing with my wife about why she doesn't play hooky from work.  She never plays hooky.  Since she was tired this morning and hasn't used a single sick day, I tried to convince her to call in and give 'em the old scratchy throat, but nothing doing.  She's too loyal, too honest.  Either that or I'm a selfish bastard who just likes to stick it to the Man.  You decide.

After plucking a couple annoying nipple hairs, I got in the car and headed north to the Audubon Reserve in Greenwich, CT.  I enjoy walking in the woods.  It's relaxing, and if I bring a notebook along, I can convince myself that I'm writing.  It's great.

Got out to the Reserve, paid the fee, and started down the trail. A steady mist was coming down, making the carpet of yellow and flame-orange leaves slick.  Empty and sodden, the woods smelled like worms.

I got about a mile into the Reserve when I found this old road, "Riverbottom Road."  Apparently the lane dated back to the Revolutionary War, and as I hiked along I liked to imagine what it must have been like to live back then.  Except for the cholera, rotten meat, and lack of electricity, I bet it was pretty good.

After another mile, I had to urinate.  Bad.  I'd passed a Porta-Potty a quarter-mile or so back, but with my bladder pulsating like a swollen wine sack, there was no way I was turning around, so when I reached the top of a small hill, I unzipped and let go.

Aaahhh, relief.  Looking up the road to where it disappeared into a tunnel of old maples, I took heart that I was alone, communing with nature in a way that only men can understand.  As a boy, I spent a great deal of time urinating outdoors.  Every day after school, behind my babysitter's house (I was five or six at the time), I hiked through a stand of bamboo to the train tracks, where I whipped it out and did a wee.  Every time, my babysitter (a woman with a penchant for Elvis, as I remember--I think she had a portrait of him on velvet!) yelled out the window, "Stop peeing!  I see you!"  To which, I replied, "No you don't!" and ran farther into the woods.

Back on Riverbottom Road, I was zipping up when I heard a twig snap behind me.  About a hundred yards down the trail, a park employee (not really a ranger) stared at me from beside a broad tulip tree.

I pretended not to notice him, but he said, "Hey, buddy," so I started down my side of the hill at a brisk pace.  Then, behind me again, "I saw you."  I said nothing and kept walking.

Half an hour later, I had completed a loop that went around "Maple Swamp" and was on my way back to the Visitor Center when I spied two men in the middle of the trail about a quarter-click ahead.  I knew why they were there, and even though I figured I could outrun the fat fucks by shooting off the path and down a rocky outcropping, I decided to face them.  I marched ahead.

Big Boy #1, the guy who had seen me urinate, stood still beside an even BIGGER boy, Big Boy #2.  They both wore khaki jumpsuits and heavy-soled boots.  I was about ten feet away when Big Boy #2 (at least 6'2" and 300 lbs.) spoke up.

"Hey, what's this about you pissing out here?"

"What about it?" I said.

"You can't take a piss out here," he said.

"Why not?  It's biodegradable."

"There's Porta-Pottys out here for that."

"I had to go."

"You're gonna have to leave," Big Boy #1 said.

"Come on," I said, "you're going to tell me that neither of you has pissed out here?"

They didn't say anything.

"Look, I apologize," I said.

"Just go," Big Boy #2 said.

"Fine."  I started down the trail.

"No, the other way," #2 said, pointing up a steep incline. "Back to the parking lot."

"They must pay you guys well," I said, brushing by them.

"And don't come back," #1 said. "We know what you look like."

"Not if I wear a disguise."

"You better not," #1 said.

"Heh, heh, heh," I snickered as I ran back to my car.

- 30 -

 

©2002 Chris Orcutt and www.notwriting.com. All rights reserved.