When The B Train Becomes The Pee Train
The Problem Is In The Probably
Good morning friends! Since it’s been all death and trauma and grief for the last few posts, I thought we’d take a little break for another installment of Things Kelli Should Be Embarrassed By But Is Not. Sunday morning we’re back to our regularly scheduled non-shenanigans, I’ll be pondering the answer to an AMA query: “What can queers do to stay relevant as we age?”
My Grandma always said, “By acting dignified, you can dignify any situation,” and I believe that in many circumstances, this is undoubtedly true. But I also think my grandmother’s insistence on the failsafe veracity of this adage tells me something significant about her: she never peed herself on the B train.
This unseemly situation began because I was taking the Megabus home from Philadelphia to New York City, and unfortunately, the bathroom was Megadisgusting.
I remembered the Overpriced Burnt Coffee R Us shop near where the bus disembarks.
I thought I could use that bathroom, probably. The problem is in the probably.
But, alas, when I opened the door to Overpriced Burnt Coffee R Us, I found a very long line for the restroom.
I thought, “Well, I can wait until I get home. Probably. “
The problem–you may recall- is with the probably.
I found my way onto the B train towards home. I occupied myself by engaging in rapid leg jiggling. The rapid leg jiggling procedure seems evolutionarily programmed into our species as a mechanism we hope will allow us to postpone urination until a more socially appropriate moment.
“I’m on the express train.” I told myself, “I’ll be home in no time. I can make it. Probably.”
The problem, alas and still, is with the probably.
The B train goes into Brooklyn via the Manhattan Bridge. At the very top of the bridge, I make a habit of looking out over the East River and the buildings of Manhattan and saying a short affirmation of gratitude, “I am so thankful to live in this beautiful city.”
But at the very moment that I was declaring my heartfelt appreciation for my beloved hometown–despite its marked lack of public restrooms- the train stopped and then abruptly started again.
The perfect storm of the physical assault on my bladder from the train’s jolt and my split-second loss of concentration combined, and I realized. “Oh, I’m peeing myself on the B train.”
In fairness to my bladder (because I’m tendersensitivequeer and want all my internal organs to feel heard and understood), I was at the time 47 years old. I was in the habit of drinking my own weight in diet energy drinks with names like Powsa! StallionKick and Runaway Ox, products designed for folks whose bladders had existed for fewer years or at least traveled fewer miles. So I understood that, clearly, my bladder was trying.
Additionally, because I am a middle-aged person assigned female at birth, I am not unfamiliar with the physical sensation that indicates light bladder leakage. I optimistically thought, “No, this is fine; this is just a situation where I’ll need to change my underwear when I get home. It won’t even show. Probably.”
The problem? Yes, you’ve caught on, haven’t you? Long before I did. Probably.
The problem is with the probably.
And then I heard it. A drip, then another drip. And then drip, drip, drip, drip, dripdripdripdripdrip.
I realized a puddle of urine was forming at my feet.
I employed all the dissociation skills I learned in childhood and pretended to be elsewhere. Or anywhere else that was not sitting in a puddle of my urine on the B train.
I reminded myself that New Yorkers are extremely good at minding our business and that most folks were engrossed in whatever book, podcast, or Citizen app notification had just popped up on their phone.
“This little puddle of pee at my feet,” I soothed myself, “will be my little secret. Probably.”
As I’m sure you remember, the problem is in the probably.
What I had not accounted for in this particular application of the probably was that I was seated in the back of the car when the pee incident commenced. The train itself was at the apex of the bridge. So when the B train started its descent into Brooklyn, the puddle of pee at my feet became a stream of urine down the length of the car.
“Don’t worry,” I consoled myself, although my interior voice was beginning to sound a touch less confident than it had 30 minutes earlier. “Seriously, these folks are New Yorkers. What’s a little pee between friends? No one will even pay any attention. Probably.”
At the next station, everyone left the car but me.
“How odd,” I thought. After a moment, I realized, “Oh, everyone left the car because of me.”
I then grasped that this was not odd behavior. This was simply an urban democracy moment, revealing that when presented with the Knowingly Standing In A Stranger’s Pee referendum, most people will vote no. They will, in fact, vote emphatically no.
I then grasped that this was not odd behavior. This was simply an urban democracy moment, revealing that when presented with the Knowingly Standing In A Stranger’s Pee referendum, most people will vote no. They will, in fact, vote emphatically no.
Although it seemed like I had been on the B train since the beginning of time, it had been only 30 minutes, and I was nearing my stop.
But then, a new worry sprung up. The seats were made of hard plastic and fashioned with a slight dip. I had no idea how much pee my pants would absorb. It could be entirely possible to leave a puddle of pee behind me when I stood up, and the next passenger might sit in it.
I later explained this to my girlfriend at the time, a lifelong New Yorker.
“Yes, Kelli.” she said, “everyone gets on the subway and observes, ‘Oh, look, there’s some unidentified fluid there. What a perfect place to sit down! My pants are entirely too dry.’”
Lifelong New Yorkers are also lifelong smartasses.
I’m not saying my logic was flawless, but it occurred to me I should probably label it. I rifled through my backpack and found not a post-it note (although that would have been perfect) but a 3 by 5 index card and a highlighter.
And I wrote on the index card, “THIS IS PEE.”
Well, “THIS IS PEE,” followed by a down arrow.
I didn’t have any tape with me. I was not prepared for this particular situation where I would need to label the body fluid that I left on the subway seat. So I took a band-aid out and affixed it to the index card.
But then I realized that there would only be a place to post the notice once I stood up. I knew it would be tricky to stand in my seat, quickly label the pee, and run out the door as the train pulled into the station I reminded myself that as a highly experienced stand-up comic, I have well-developed timing skills, just waiting for the situation I now found myself in.
But alas, my arrival on the urine-soaked B train coincided with the dismissal of a middle school adjacent to my subway stop. Even my well-honed comedic timing and trauma-borne dissociation talents could not compete with the giggles of hundreds of 7th graders as they pushed their way into the car and observed me labeling my own body fluid.
“I’ll just scoot right out,” I said, returning to my optimistic self-talk, “and I can go home and forget this embarrassing incident forever. Probably.”
I then heard of the click of the camera app on dozens of cell phones.
Within 24 hours, friends started texting me screenshots of pee-labeling photos they stumbled across on their social media wanderings.
A new photo will pop up or be reshared every six months or so.
One friend asked, “This will haunt you for the rest of your life, don’t you think?”
I am quite certain she is quite correct.
About that, there is no probably.
What’s that you say, you enjoyed this horrification so much, you’d like to listen to it, and/or watch it acted out by some of the lego folks portrayed above? I got you, it’s here.
LOVE THIS SO MUCH!
Loved this!