After a few hearty hours of carousing like we were members of Motley Crue in 1989, we decided to partake in Last Call and closed the place down.
I recall TD and I toasting the last drink triumphantly, as if we’d somehow won some kind of Last Man Standing contest. Judging by the fact that we were the only two dickish drunks still sitting at the bar, I suppose we did.
With severely inhibited judgment and full bladders, we’d forgotten to relieve ourselves before departing on our stroll back to the hotel.
TD couldn’t hold it in, so he decided to release the hounds and open the urinary flood gates on the side of the street while trying to sing the song ‘Islands in the Stream.’
“Islands in the stream…that is what we are…nah nuh nah nuh nuh…hm huh hm huh huh…”
Meanwhile, it occurs to me that it’s not too late for the cops to be patrolling.
I’m not sure why it is that I always end up being the sole voice of reason among the drunks I know, but that's my job. I suppose someone has to do it, but I sure as hell wish it wasn't me.
“Dude, go piss over in there, by that wall. If the cops see you, you’re going to jail!”
Meanwhile, I turn my head and what do I see...an NYPD patrol car at the red light at the end of the block.
“Oh shit dude, Five-O!”
I thought for sure we were going to jail.
As if he’d done it a million times before, he somehow cut off his pee-flow in mid-stream and calmly started walking. As if everything was normal!
Once the squad car had passed, he whipped out the old tally-whacker again and finishes.
I was astounded.
In fact, I was in such amazement at this feat that I almost high-fived him. But, then I quickly remembered where his hands had just been, so I simply fist-bumped him and praised him heartily on his talented prostate and bladder control abilities.
As for me, I didn’t feel my bladder act up until we stumbled to about 33rd and 5th, but it was still manageable enough to avoid the pee-pee dance that holding it in too long sometimes induces.
By the time we got to the hotel around 3AM, however, I was damn near close to pissing myself!
Now, the Latham Hotel is old and was designed with Old-world European style shared bathrooms and an elevator that’s so damn slow it must still work on an old hand-crank and ropes or something. I didn’t realize this fact until after I’d screamed a gaggle of obscenities in two languages while slowly ascending in the elevator.
After what felt like an eternity on the non-air conditioned, hot box of an elevator, I scurried toward the room, terrorizing the halls on the way there, and nearly ripping the door off its hinges.
"There’s no fucking bathroom in here!"
In a panic, I tear out of the room and locate what looks like it might be a restroom door. I try to open it.
To my horror, it’s locked.
In complete disgust I shout at the top of my lungs, “Are you fucking shitting me!”
Of course, it’s TD’s goddam girlfriend in there. Did I mention she literally takes at least 20 minutes every time she uses the bathroom?
Well, she does.
Every time we make plans to go somewhere, we have to plan in an extra 20-40 minutes for bathroom breaks. I shit you not. I don’t know what the hell she does in there, but if it weren’t for the fact she does it even when it's just her and TD, I’d think she does it just to piss me off.
Anyway, after nearly kicking the door in, I run back toward the room loosening my belt.
“Motherfucker!” I scream as I hurry back toward the room. I’ve had it, and I’m about to piss in the nearest garbage bucket or drawer I find.
The door is open in the room and as I’m frantically scurrying towards it, TD shouts, “Dude, there’s a sink in here!”
With the unmitigated glee of a sea-sick landlubber who just set foot back on dry land, I scurry into the room and relieve myself in the sink.
It was utterly euphoric.
Shortly after that, the drama faded away along with our consciousness, and we all fell asleep.
The next day, I woke up to the sounds of Big Bertha, a single A/C unit that sounded like an old Buick with a broken muffler, with Tricky Dick’s beastly snores in the background. I closed my eyes to try and go back to sleep, but the symphony of noise pollution proved too distracting.
As I lay there next to Big B, trying to find my happy place, The Diva, Miss Wonderful herself, wakes up. She proceeds to brush her teeth and wash her face in the sink that I had showered with yellow joy the night before.
Granted, I rinsed it off and all – but still, the satisfaction of knowing what had transpired in that very spot the night before was enough to make me smile with contentment.
In fact, it seemed so right that I felt all warm and fuzzy inside; it was as if justice had somehow been administered on my behalf, and I was more than satisfied about the karmic irony of the situation.
And so, at the hands of this reckoning, I drifted back into the type of deep, hard sleep that a narcoleptic xanax addict would have after a three course meal.
Seeing the miserable, judgmental girl who is trying to break apart your friendship with your buddy use the sink you relieved yourself in the night before: Priceless.
Once again, sometimes it’s the little things in life you appreciate the most.