I woke up in the middle of urinating.
It was a recurrent problem in my early youth. I was a
prolific bed wetter. So frequent were my illicit leakages that my hindquarters
were dyed a sickly yellow. My mum installed an old shower curtain under the bed
sheet, but it quickly grew mildew and had to be disposed of.
Every few months I would unwittingly abandon my bed and
awaken on my feet, a fine stream of urine splashing onto an area of the house
ill-equipped for the task. Often it was a bin or plastic drinking cup, perhaps
a habitual hangover from my days of potty use, and easily dealt with. At my
Grandma’s house it tended to be one corner of my bedroom, resulting in several
frantic middle-of-the-night panic scrubbings.
Image posted without comment
This time I woke up and found myself pissing all over my
school project, due the next morning. The task was to fashion some kind of
parachute. Its mettle would be tested by throwing it over the balcony in the
school hall. I had gathered together all my engineering genius to stab holes
into all four corners of a white handkerchief, run string through each and tied
it all around the waist of a rubber action figure.
Now it was soaked in piss.
Even to my young mind this was clearly a problem. It was now
far too saturated to float. And it stank of piss.
I hurried quietly into the bathroom and ran the hanky under
the tap. Its new yellow tint refused to recede. Even after a thorough rinse it
smelled of piss. I cast around the bathroom until I spotted a bottle of mint
mouthwash. I drenched the material with it, sure that the sharp medicinal mint
would overrule my pre-pubescent urine. Finally I set the project to dry on the
radiator and returned to bed.
This is what happens when you search 'happy mattress.'
In the morning my room smelled like a hospital ward: the
clean smell of mint undermined by a distinct bodily musk. Still, at close
quarters the handkerchief smelled reasonably fresh, and it was dry. I had got
away with it, and for once my mattress had not borne the brunt of my lascivious
bladder.
The parachute remained in my bag until mid-morning. The
class trooped through into the school hall, and small groups took it turns to
ascend to the balcony. The winner would be whoever’s parachute remained in the
air the longest.
What's the worst that could happen?
My group lined up on the balcony. I took the parachute from
my bag.
“Ugh, what’s that smell?”
The mouthwash had worn off. The heady tang of stale piss
drifted across the balcony. My classmates swatted at the air as if the smell
were a cloud of gnats, pulled the necks of their jumpers up over their noses.
Even the teacher was taken aback, reeling as the smell pinched at her nostrils.
Eyes began to turn in my direction. I had to act quickly.
Before they could single me out I stepped to the rail of the balcony and hurled
my parachute over the edge.
It plummeted to the ground in less than a second. I rushed
to retrieve it before anyone else could, and celebrated last place by flushing
the project down the toilet.
