I’ll get right to it. I could barely pee on my own without shooting a stream like a wild hose was out of control on the bathroom floor.
The problem wasn’t me. The hall commode was a cathedral of tile and fixtures with a throne set almost too high for my tippytoes to help reach.
You see, I was an independent young lad. I could clamber out a bedroom window at three years of age and walk through the dark, out to the edge of Candler Avenue in San Jose, California, and sit on the curb with our dog Candy. I’d do that: curb sitting. Just pass the time. Just sit there with our overgrown sheltie dog, watching the clouds, watching people pass in the dark, or during the midday, or whenever.
You’d think that dog could have helped me take a proper piss in the toilet.
I had no problem whipping it out for a leak in the backyard like I was on some great adventure in the outback of my dreams.
Hell, I could drench the side of the house and shoot petals off flowers if I had to. Me and the dog—we pissed together on the apple tree. It was fun. I don’t know why she lifted her leg. But she did.
I gladly pissed in the wild. In fact, I could have been on “Survivor” at age three and won. Most challenges of my wayward youth were easy obstacles to defeat.
Getting out of the neighbor’s garage after sneaking in. Simple. That was just a waiting game. He left and turned off the lights. I think I just crawled into a really dark place. I popped out when there was light, terrifying everyone like I was a cat scampering from a tin can.
Once I tried to slither out of a canal as torrents pushed me down its muddy banks, determined to drown me. I escaped. I told my mother I fell into a puddle.
I solved the problem of urgency once by running toward home and pooping in my pants. I hid the evidence in my room. I don’t even think the dog ratted me out.
I found creative ways to turn Tinker Toys into bows and arrows and launched them at my brother’s skull. I could have hunted deer.
But that damned toilet.
The bathroom throne was my greatest challenge at about age three. I’m guessing here since my parents are no longer among the living. Three sounds good. It puts me at that challenging height for a youngster trying to sling his tiny dick into position for a squirt into the commode.
I was proud of myself when I reached such fathomable heights and wasn’t shooting the opposite rim, or firing away at the open door.
I remember pushing up the seat and lid. That was always a minor victory when my pants were around my ankles. Yes, that’s how I peed then. There was no sneaking it out through little portholes. The pants went straight to the ankles just like that one rejected American Idol song: “Pants on the ground, pants on the ground…”
And the dick went on the rim. Barely. That could have been a verse in that song. “Dick on the rim, Dick on the rim! Hat turned sideways, dick on the rim!”
The toilet seat fell in slow motion.
I could have moved. But it took so much energy to yank down my pants, get on my tippytoes, and then try not to shoot the dog that was watching.
I couldn’t react. Little kids can’t react. They just watch. I watched.
I watched the toilet seat smash my tiny wiener.
And then I howled in pain. I howled and did some sort of strange tribal dance, because, well, that’s what you do when your wiener gets crushed.
I howled because I had to pee and I was afraid.
I howled for my mommy. She came running in. She held me as I howled, “I want a Band-aid!”
And then she put one on.
I felt glorious.
I’m guessing it fell off somewhere outside.