Roadside Rebellion
Posted: 31 Dec 2023, 01:01
Hey everyone, starting off my first story here so let me know what you think. I think this complies with all the guidelines, but definitely let me know if I should change anything.
Also, because this is the Internet, I feel the need to add:
DISCLAIMER. Nothing in this story should be taken as constituting medical information or advice. If you need a doctor, you should see one. I am not responsible for anything that happens to anybody who makes any medical decision based off of the contents of this story.
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Part 1: The Prescription
John, a robust man in his forties, navigated life with a sense of vitality that matched his prime health. Though his sturdy frame from his college football days had begun to soften, his strength built from years of training and clashes on the gridiron still rippled through his arms as he shook the doctor's hand, and as he stood up after taking off his shoes, his glutes flexed visibly through his faded, well-worn blue jeans. That afternoon, the annual physical with his long-trusted physician was mostly unremarkable.
"You're in excellent shape for forty-three, John."
"Well thanks!" John replied modestly, chuckling in surprise.
"No, thank you," replied Dr. Schmidt. "Patients like you make my job easy. Ah, there is one thing ..."
John, who had been briskly dressing himself, paused to face his doctor. "What do you mean?" he asked, furrowing his brow as he absent-mindedly adjusted his white briefs at the seams.
"Your blood pressure. It's a bit high. Anything we should talk about?"
John searched his mind. "Uhh, nothin' I can think of, Doc. I've been cutting back on the coffee, just one cup a day like you said ..." Suddenly, it came to him. "Oh! I guess I never told ya about the new job," pointing to Dr. Schmidt with a snap of his fingers.
"Congratulations!"
"Yeah!" said John, smiling. "I landed a superintendent role with another firm. Transportation engineering, like the last job, but I'm meeting with clients, planning projects from start to finish. Highways, parking lots — stuff like that."
"Sounds like a real step-up for you ..."
"Yeah, no kidding. Nothing like being a rookie with a fresh civil-engineering degree," he sighed. "Some of these clients, when they want something now, it's now, y'know? Having to talk them past that ... it takes some getting used to."
"Sounds stressful ... ?" Dr. Schmidt offered, looking John in the eyes. He had been John's physician for the better part of a decade now, and knew he wasn't the type to fret or worry about his lot in life. (It was a trait he frankly admired, and felt that more of his patients could use.) On occasion, however, John could be stubborn. He sometimes needed Dr. Schmidt to point out health concerns to him carefully, and with a light touch.
"Ahh, y'know," he began, immediately dismissing the notion with a wave of his hand. "Work's work, right?"
"Work is work," Dr. Schmidt affirmed, no longer facing his patient. "But it's best to get ahead of these things if we can," as he scrawled briskly on a prescription pad. "Believe me," now addressing John again, "you're much better off knocking off a few units from your blood pressure now than having to come see me about heart problems in another three years."
"I see it every day, John," the doctor said, softly but firmly, arching his eyebrows.
"Do ya."
Dr. Schmidt nodded solemnly. "This should take care of it," he said, handing John the prescription. "You can get that filled down the block before you head home today," the doctor announced, with finality. They said their goodbyes, and John headed to the elevator bank letting out into the lobby.
*************************
Dr. Schmidt had started John on a light dose of beta blockers. At first, John was skeptical. Did he really need pills for some new-job jitters, he wondered to himself. Growing up in athletics, injuries running the gamut from scrapes and bruises all the way to muscle cramps and the occasional sprain or broken bone were all par for the course. So long as he could continue to move unimpeded, he was more apt to walk it off than to bother going to his coach or the sports medicine clinic. Regardless, he followed his doctor's orders and took the medication as prescribed.
And there was no arguing with results. John's blood pressure, which Dr. Schmidt had asked John to begin measuring at home, stabilized. He even felt the undercurrent of anxiety that had seized him upon starting as a project manager begin to recede. His heart no longer raced unexpectedly as he worked to meet deadlines, and he seemed to handle tense meetings between the firm and their clients with a newfound ease.
There was just one thing that was bothering him. Nothing, really. For all he knew, it was his mind playing tricks on him.
John had been a creature of habit all his life. He got up in the morning to use the bathroom, and get showered and dressed. Then during lunch, or afterwards just before a meeting, he would stop by the men's room. Getting home, after parking his car in the driveway next to his house, he would make a beeline to the toilet before changing out of his office clothes and relaxing for the rest of the day. Finally, he would pee before going to bed, a habit which had become especially helpful in recent years if he wanted to avoid waking up in the middle of the night.
Lately, however, John had started to feel the familiar need between his usual pit stops. Once on a Thursday, while trying to bang out the first draft of a project proposal so that he could take it easy the next day, he drained his water bottle only to find, ten minutes later, that he had rewritten the same sentence five or six times. Unable to think straight, he got up from his desk, taking a break to empty his bladder. Another time, as he walked up to his car on the 2nd story of the parking garage down the street from his place of work, the run-down bathrooms at the end of the garage opposite the road caught his eye, for no reason he could place. He had never noticed them before. He wasn't even sure he'd known that the garage had bathrooms. Nevertheless, he popped in for a quick piss, his dress shoes clattering rhythmically against the damp tile. He approached the steel urinal fixture carefully to avoid stepping on some previous visitor's careless dribbles, heaving a sigh of unexpected relief as he began to urinate.
Three weeks into the new medication, John found himself going to the toilet two to three more times a day than normal. He figured it must have just been all the water he drank. Old habits die hard, he laughed to himself, thinking back to his brief stint playing college football at the national level, when their coach was so insistent on keeping his athletes well-hydrated that he would have the entire team break at regular intervals as he ordered them all to finish their water bottles. The hot midday sun shone against dozens of Nalgenes in assorted blues and greens as the young men drank eagerly, panting between gulps and wiping the sweat from their brows. They mostly sweated it back out during exercising and scrimmages, though every once in a while he'd notice a teammate standing at the edge of the field, the flaps of his untied belt dangling to his sides as he unlaced his fly and fished himself out of his jockstrap to piss in the bushes. They were all guys there, and they knew Coach didn't mind. Hell, he'd even seen Coach do it while he had the team running drills.
Despite his casual dismissal of his situation, John's increased urinary frequency led one day to a scene at the office which still bothered him to think about. It happened one Tuesday at around 4pm, while he and a coworker Miguel were on a conference call with a large government client. John and his colleague were seated in a conference room, talking into a speakerphone with the client, who had dialed in remotely. They were discussing a proposal for the design of a municipal parking lot which was to fit 150 - 200 cars, and the call had run over by about ten minutes. John's proposal, which he had written up under the guidance of another project manager at the firm, Chris, offered three alternatives for the location of the parking lot.
It had proven unexpectedly difficult to find a suitable location. The first choice which John suggested, an otherwise vacant lot of paved ground, was the perfect size, but the environmental assessment would likely conclude that surrounding drainage would be inadequate to cope with the wastewater during the southeastern town's seasonal rainstorms, which had grown increasingly frequent in recent years. He had managed to locate a second spot, nearer to a shopping plaza with various stores and restaurants, that had permeable surfaces to reduce runoff and an excellent supply of drains. Unfortunately, in order for the layout of parking spots to include sufficient maneuvering space and proper turning radii, the perimeter would have to come closer to the allotted area of an adjacent gas station than the city's zoning would permit. John nodded eagerly, responding politely and in depth to the client team's concerns about groundwater contamination, though one of the client's sidebars about the impact of fluid stagnation during especially bad downpours caused him to wince, sucking his teeth as he squeezed his thighs together. Thankfully, Miguel was busy typing down notes at the computer, and missed John's pained reflex as he fought against a sudden twinge of his bladder.
At last, John seemed to have found a location that would satisfy all of the client's requirements. It was an overgrown plot of land, the grass trampled in the middle from foot traffic, as pedestrians often used it as a shortcut. The two long sides of the rectangular plot formed a sort of corridor between the road and the small cluster of storefronts that it opened out on. Along those edges, Bermuda grass and even a few patches of reeds had grown lanky, and the pieces of rundown fencing which survived were nearly covered in vines. The size was adequate for the stipulated parking capacity, while the lush soil and dense vegetation surrounding the area would absorb even the heaviest runoff with ease. John thought he had checked off every box with this location, but there was one detail which had slipped his notice.
"Where will the comfort station go?" asked a junior urban planner who had been shadowing the client team until that point.
"... huh?" John replied.
"That's typical with these government contracts, John," Miguel cut in. "There's health codes and mandated accessibility requirements with a lot of these municipal designs. If there aren't bathrooms available then the city could face a lawsuit, or even have to shut the facility down."
"Oh, got it," John nodded, thinking desperately of a polite way to finally bring the meeting to an end.
"Yeah man," said Bruce, an intern with the client team who was still on his first month with the organization. He was getting used to the norms of office communication, but still had a streak of the frat boy about him. "You or I could go over to the weeds and start whizzin', but it's not so easy for the ladies," he smirked, chuckling slightly.
"We've got somewhere to run to unfortunately, but we'll give it some thought and make sure to get back to you by end of day. Sorry about the oversight," John said, addressing the speakerphone. The client team wrapped up their call with the contractors, thanking them for spending a bit longer to hammer out the details. As John tapped a button to hang up the call, he got up and exhaled sharply, muttering a hurried "'scuse me" to Miguel as he nearly jogged out of the conference room.
The conference room was one of several, laid out along three sides of a modestly sized open-plan office with about 30 desks. John swiftly walked through the center of the office space, exiting it through a doorway opening onto a hallway. Safely out of view of his colleagues, he stuck his right hand down the pocket of his beige khakis, pinching himself as he turned and cut a brisk path to the men's room, all the way at the end of the corridor to his left, and just next to an emergency stairwell. As he pushed open the swing door to the bathroom, he marched up to a urinal, pausing to suck in his breath as he tensed his sphincter shut to hold himself in during the final stretch. Bobbing up and down as he unbuckled his belt and unzipped his fly, he finally managed to free himself from his underwear as he aimed a forceful stream against the back of the porcelain.
"Close call there, eh, buddy?" a voice called out. John startled, turning to face a coworker standing to his right. In his haste to use the toilet, he didn't notice that Chris was there.
"You got that right," John smiled, his left hand on his hip as he continued to aim himself with his right. He carried himself casually, but a moment later he blushed slightly. Chris was like a mentor to John, and he felt awkward about Chris noticing how badly he had to pee. He wondered if he had even seen him squirming in front of the urinal, with a hint of embarrassment.
What's with me lately, anyway, John thought to himself as he walked back to his desk, his underclothes mercifully remaining dry. I'm out here doin' a potty dance in front of the pisser like a sophomore standing in line for the bathroom at his first kegger. He drifted away from this train of thought, sighing as he returned to his desk. In what little remained of his work day, he set his mind to figuring out where the vacant plot of land could fit men's and women's bathrooms that would comply with the local zoning laws.
It wasn't until a fishing trip with his old buddy Jake that he decided he might be in need of some medical attention. That Saturday morning, they set out to the lake making excellent time. John wore a pair of dusty white sneakers, some light tan fishing shorts with plenty of pockets, a worn t-shirt branded with the logo of a state park he'd visited in his twenties, and a gray baseball cap that was beginning to fray at the brim, as he drove on to the highway, then turned onto a road that got slightly bumpier as they approached the lake. About forty minutes into the drive, Jake noticed John tapping his left foot nonstop, with the occasional squirm as he pursed his lips and dug his pelvis into the driver's seat. Looks kinda like my nephew on our road trip to Alabama last year after one too many cans of Coke, Jake thought to himself.
"D'you wanna pull over, dude?" he asked John.
"Pull over for what?" he replied, hardly listening as he stared down the road in front of him. He had no clue what Jake was suggesting.
"So you can — ah, never mind," dropping the subject. They were nearly there, anyway.
Eventually they made it out onto the lake, where the chill of being out on the water seemed to make John's need worse. His fidgeting got so bad that it caused the lightweight aluminum boat to rock, John seated on the edge while Jake sat beside the cockpit, his legs dangling down into the well of the vessel as he tried to hook some bait. As a sudden breeze caused John to bolt upright and shudder, the boat pitched in John's direction, causing Jake to nearly prick his thumb.
"Why dontcha sit still, man," Jake shot at John, exasperated.
"Aw fuck. I'm sorry." John sighed deeply, staring out at the water. "My back teeth are floatin' out here," he muttered, shaking his head as he turned away from Jake and started pissing off the stern, a few drops landing on the deck before he managed to direct a full-bore jet into the lake.
Jake paused what he was doing, staring for a moment as it registered what was happening. Then he began to laugh heartily, deep belly laughs with pauses to breathe. John used his free hand to flip off his friend from over his shoulder.
"So much for your steel bladder," Jake said, getting up to do the same. He fished himself out and pointed over the port. His stream was relaxed and unhurried as he stared down and watched ragged concentric circles rippling out from where he aimed. "Usually I'm the one whizzing in the lake," he mused distantly. "Maybe you gotta get that prostate checked out."
John scoffed. "What am I, some fuckin' boomer?" His stream was still as loud as it was when he started urinating.
"All right, take it easy! I'm just sayin'," Jake relented. He was done already, forcing out another few spurts before he shook himself dry with two quick, firm squeezes down his hose before zipping back up. "Sometimes the forties is when it starts." Jake was right, John thought. This wasn't like him at all.
A few weeks later, John found himself seated in the urologist's office, as unsure how he'd gotten into this situation as he was whether Dr. Harris would help him.
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John disliked the idea of having to go to the urologist, and now that he was sitting in Dr. Harris' lobby he liked it even less. So he was pissing like a racehorse now and again. Wasn't that good? Wasn't that how stuff was supposed to work down there? Healthy kidneys, healthy bladder. Everything else seemed to be in working order. Certainly no complaints from the missus, he smirked with private satisfaction, reveling in his undiminished potency. He was interrupted from this train of thought by the receptionist, who poked her head above the counter to address John.
"Sir, Dr. Harris will see you now."
John went in and shook hands with Dr. Harris. John had simply skimmed the directory of his insurer's in-network doctors and went with the urologist that was closest for him to get to. He didn't know anything else about Dr. Harris except his name.
"Will you tell me what brings you here today," he said, riffling through John's medical chart in no apparent order.
"Well," John said, taking a deep breath, "I dunno but lately ..." John paused to gather his thoughts. What was his problem? Did he have a problem? He thought back to his close call at the office urinals, and cringed. "I think something's wrong with how I'm peeing."
"What do you mean 'you think.'" It was a question, but Dr. Harris spoke it with the prosody of a statement.
John looked down at the floor, scratching his crewcut reddish-brown hair near his left temple as he started over. "I mean, it's coming out — I'm having no problem with the flow, is what I'm saying. But. Out of nowhere I'll get these urges. And then I gotta hold on as I'm getting to the bathroom. Like, the other day —"
"Are you experiencing increased urgency, or increased frequency," Dr. Harris cut him off. John thought for a moment, his arms now folded across his chest.
"Uhh, both, actually. I can get to the pis— the bathroom just fine. That's not the problem. But I'll be in a work meeting, or out on a trip somewhere, and I'll get that urge to go so strong that it makes me think, shoot, I gotta find a bathroom somewhere."
"I see," the urologist replied. He had just finished reading the page summarizing John's most recent physical. He had not turned to face John once, since they shook hands. He now put down the chart, and cleared his throat.
"Well, your physician just did your physical and he didn't spot anything out of the ordinary there. So there's not much use in doing a prostate exam today. It never hurts to take a urine sample, so I'll order some labs for you on the way out today."
Dr. Harris now leaned back in his chair slightly and looked John in the eyes, holding his gaze briefly. John wasn't sure what he was thinking.
"Do you urinate outside the bathroom at all, John?"
John was slightly taken aback by the question, though he didn't show it. What man doesn't, he couldn't help thinking. John curled his lips and began to smile, laughing politely under his breath. Dr. Harris was unwavering.
"Not usually, Doc ..." John began to search backward in time mentally. "Like, if I'm out on a boat and there's no bathroom, I'll go over the side of the boat sometimes. If I really gotta." John paused, his hands folded in his lap. "We've got a really big backyard and if I'm pulling weeds or mowing the grass, sometimes I'll stop and just go in a corner somewhere, y'know. Faster than having to walk inside. That way I don't get the floor dirty." Dr. Harris nodded, remaining silent.
"Why," John said, breaking the silence. "Something wrong?"
Dr. Harris hemmed, not really answering John. "I see this a lot in men your age. We're just going to have to deal with this once and for all," he proclaimed, grabbing some pamphlets from a drawer by his desk. He handed them to John, looking him in the eyes again.
"I'm going to recommend a course of bladder training. It'll help you regain control over your bladder and improve your overall urinary health."
John furrowed his brow at the thought of such a regimen. "Bladder training? Training to do what?"
Dr. Harris explained, "You'll keep a log of your bathroom visits, and we'll work on gradually reducing the frequency over time. It's about retraining the muscles and nerves of your bladder, so that you can cope with the urge to urinate better, and build better habits."
Just hearing the urologist say that gave John a twinge. He pressed his thighs together, he hoped imperceptibly. John gulped with anxiety, but nodded, mustering his resolve.
"Better habits?"
Dr. Harris nodded. "This urinating-in-your-backyard business can't continue. You don't want to be like those men in their sixties who can't go anywhere without knowing the location of every bathroom in advance, do you?"
That was what John thought the doctor meant, but hearing him say it out loud made him feel judged. His warning even echoed his retort to his friend Jake on the fishing boat to an uncomfortably close degree. Thoughts of a shot bladder in a decade or two's time lingered in his mind. John was used to being in charge of his own life and his routine. The thought of having to alter his schedule so that he could always take a potty break if he needed one felt like a social death to him. His mind recoiled from the very idea of it.
"I guess not."
"No, you don't. So give those a read and come back to me in a month. I want to see your log filled out every day. Understood?"
"Alright, Doc. Let's give it a shot."
Also, because this is the Internet, I feel the need to add:
DISCLAIMER. Nothing in this story should be taken as constituting medical information or advice. If you need a doctor, you should see one. I am not responsible for anything that happens to anybody who makes any medical decision based off of the contents of this story.
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Part 1: The Prescription
John, a robust man in his forties, navigated life with a sense of vitality that matched his prime health. Though his sturdy frame from his college football days had begun to soften, his strength built from years of training and clashes on the gridiron still rippled through his arms as he shook the doctor's hand, and as he stood up after taking off his shoes, his glutes flexed visibly through his faded, well-worn blue jeans. That afternoon, the annual physical with his long-trusted physician was mostly unremarkable.
"You're in excellent shape for forty-three, John."
"Well thanks!" John replied modestly, chuckling in surprise.
"No, thank you," replied Dr. Schmidt. "Patients like you make my job easy. Ah, there is one thing ..."
John, who had been briskly dressing himself, paused to face his doctor. "What do you mean?" he asked, furrowing his brow as he absent-mindedly adjusted his white briefs at the seams.
"Your blood pressure. It's a bit high. Anything we should talk about?"
John searched his mind. "Uhh, nothin' I can think of, Doc. I've been cutting back on the coffee, just one cup a day like you said ..." Suddenly, it came to him. "Oh! I guess I never told ya about the new job," pointing to Dr. Schmidt with a snap of his fingers.
"Congratulations!"
"Yeah!" said John, smiling. "I landed a superintendent role with another firm. Transportation engineering, like the last job, but I'm meeting with clients, planning projects from start to finish. Highways, parking lots — stuff like that."
"Sounds like a real step-up for you ..."
"Yeah, no kidding. Nothing like being a rookie with a fresh civil-engineering degree," he sighed. "Some of these clients, when they want something now, it's now, y'know? Having to talk them past that ... it takes some getting used to."
"Sounds stressful ... ?" Dr. Schmidt offered, looking John in the eyes. He had been John's physician for the better part of a decade now, and knew he wasn't the type to fret or worry about his lot in life. (It was a trait he frankly admired, and felt that more of his patients could use.) On occasion, however, John could be stubborn. He sometimes needed Dr. Schmidt to point out health concerns to him carefully, and with a light touch.
"Ahh, y'know," he began, immediately dismissing the notion with a wave of his hand. "Work's work, right?"
"Work is work," Dr. Schmidt affirmed, no longer facing his patient. "But it's best to get ahead of these things if we can," as he scrawled briskly on a prescription pad. "Believe me," now addressing John again, "you're much better off knocking off a few units from your blood pressure now than having to come see me about heart problems in another three years."
"I see it every day, John," the doctor said, softly but firmly, arching his eyebrows.
"Do ya."
Dr. Schmidt nodded solemnly. "This should take care of it," he said, handing John the prescription. "You can get that filled down the block before you head home today," the doctor announced, with finality. They said their goodbyes, and John headed to the elevator bank letting out into the lobby.
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Dr. Schmidt had started John on a light dose of beta blockers. At first, John was skeptical. Did he really need pills for some new-job jitters, he wondered to himself. Growing up in athletics, injuries running the gamut from scrapes and bruises all the way to muscle cramps and the occasional sprain or broken bone were all par for the course. So long as he could continue to move unimpeded, he was more apt to walk it off than to bother going to his coach or the sports medicine clinic. Regardless, he followed his doctor's orders and took the medication as prescribed.
And there was no arguing with results. John's blood pressure, which Dr. Schmidt had asked John to begin measuring at home, stabilized. He even felt the undercurrent of anxiety that had seized him upon starting as a project manager begin to recede. His heart no longer raced unexpectedly as he worked to meet deadlines, and he seemed to handle tense meetings between the firm and their clients with a newfound ease.
There was just one thing that was bothering him. Nothing, really. For all he knew, it was his mind playing tricks on him.
John had been a creature of habit all his life. He got up in the morning to use the bathroom, and get showered and dressed. Then during lunch, or afterwards just before a meeting, he would stop by the men's room. Getting home, after parking his car in the driveway next to his house, he would make a beeline to the toilet before changing out of his office clothes and relaxing for the rest of the day. Finally, he would pee before going to bed, a habit which had become especially helpful in recent years if he wanted to avoid waking up in the middle of the night.
Lately, however, John had started to feel the familiar need between his usual pit stops. Once on a Thursday, while trying to bang out the first draft of a project proposal so that he could take it easy the next day, he drained his water bottle only to find, ten minutes later, that he had rewritten the same sentence five or six times. Unable to think straight, he got up from his desk, taking a break to empty his bladder. Another time, as he walked up to his car on the 2nd story of the parking garage down the street from his place of work, the run-down bathrooms at the end of the garage opposite the road caught his eye, for no reason he could place. He had never noticed them before. He wasn't even sure he'd known that the garage had bathrooms. Nevertheless, he popped in for a quick piss, his dress shoes clattering rhythmically against the damp tile. He approached the steel urinal fixture carefully to avoid stepping on some previous visitor's careless dribbles, heaving a sigh of unexpected relief as he began to urinate.
Three weeks into the new medication, John found himself going to the toilet two to three more times a day than normal. He figured it must have just been all the water he drank. Old habits die hard, he laughed to himself, thinking back to his brief stint playing college football at the national level, when their coach was so insistent on keeping his athletes well-hydrated that he would have the entire team break at regular intervals as he ordered them all to finish their water bottles. The hot midday sun shone against dozens of Nalgenes in assorted blues and greens as the young men drank eagerly, panting between gulps and wiping the sweat from their brows. They mostly sweated it back out during exercising and scrimmages, though every once in a while he'd notice a teammate standing at the edge of the field, the flaps of his untied belt dangling to his sides as he unlaced his fly and fished himself out of his jockstrap to piss in the bushes. They were all guys there, and they knew Coach didn't mind. Hell, he'd even seen Coach do it while he had the team running drills.
Despite his casual dismissal of his situation, John's increased urinary frequency led one day to a scene at the office which still bothered him to think about. It happened one Tuesday at around 4pm, while he and a coworker Miguel were on a conference call with a large government client. John and his colleague were seated in a conference room, talking into a speakerphone with the client, who had dialed in remotely. They were discussing a proposal for the design of a municipal parking lot which was to fit 150 - 200 cars, and the call had run over by about ten minutes. John's proposal, which he had written up under the guidance of another project manager at the firm, Chris, offered three alternatives for the location of the parking lot.
It had proven unexpectedly difficult to find a suitable location. The first choice which John suggested, an otherwise vacant lot of paved ground, was the perfect size, but the environmental assessment would likely conclude that surrounding drainage would be inadequate to cope with the wastewater during the southeastern town's seasonal rainstorms, which had grown increasingly frequent in recent years. He had managed to locate a second spot, nearer to a shopping plaza with various stores and restaurants, that had permeable surfaces to reduce runoff and an excellent supply of drains. Unfortunately, in order for the layout of parking spots to include sufficient maneuvering space and proper turning radii, the perimeter would have to come closer to the allotted area of an adjacent gas station than the city's zoning would permit. John nodded eagerly, responding politely and in depth to the client team's concerns about groundwater contamination, though one of the client's sidebars about the impact of fluid stagnation during especially bad downpours caused him to wince, sucking his teeth as he squeezed his thighs together. Thankfully, Miguel was busy typing down notes at the computer, and missed John's pained reflex as he fought against a sudden twinge of his bladder.
At last, John seemed to have found a location that would satisfy all of the client's requirements. It was an overgrown plot of land, the grass trampled in the middle from foot traffic, as pedestrians often used it as a shortcut. The two long sides of the rectangular plot formed a sort of corridor between the road and the small cluster of storefronts that it opened out on. Along those edges, Bermuda grass and even a few patches of reeds had grown lanky, and the pieces of rundown fencing which survived were nearly covered in vines. The size was adequate for the stipulated parking capacity, while the lush soil and dense vegetation surrounding the area would absorb even the heaviest runoff with ease. John thought he had checked off every box with this location, but there was one detail which had slipped his notice.
"Where will the comfort station go?" asked a junior urban planner who had been shadowing the client team until that point.
"... huh?" John replied.
"That's typical with these government contracts, John," Miguel cut in. "There's health codes and mandated accessibility requirements with a lot of these municipal designs. If there aren't bathrooms available then the city could face a lawsuit, or even have to shut the facility down."
"Oh, got it," John nodded, thinking desperately of a polite way to finally bring the meeting to an end.
"Yeah man," said Bruce, an intern with the client team who was still on his first month with the organization. He was getting used to the norms of office communication, but still had a streak of the frat boy about him. "You or I could go over to the weeds and start whizzin', but it's not so easy for the ladies," he smirked, chuckling slightly.
"We've got somewhere to run to unfortunately, but we'll give it some thought and make sure to get back to you by end of day. Sorry about the oversight," John said, addressing the speakerphone. The client team wrapped up their call with the contractors, thanking them for spending a bit longer to hammer out the details. As John tapped a button to hang up the call, he got up and exhaled sharply, muttering a hurried "'scuse me" to Miguel as he nearly jogged out of the conference room.
The conference room was one of several, laid out along three sides of a modestly sized open-plan office with about 30 desks. John swiftly walked through the center of the office space, exiting it through a doorway opening onto a hallway. Safely out of view of his colleagues, he stuck his right hand down the pocket of his beige khakis, pinching himself as he turned and cut a brisk path to the men's room, all the way at the end of the corridor to his left, and just next to an emergency stairwell. As he pushed open the swing door to the bathroom, he marched up to a urinal, pausing to suck in his breath as he tensed his sphincter shut to hold himself in during the final stretch. Bobbing up and down as he unbuckled his belt and unzipped his fly, he finally managed to free himself from his underwear as he aimed a forceful stream against the back of the porcelain.
"Close call there, eh, buddy?" a voice called out. John startled, turning to face a coworker standing to his right. In his haste to use the toilet, he didn't notice that Chris was there.
"You got that right," John smiled, his left hand on his hip as he continued to aim himself with his right. He carried himself casually, but a moment later he blushed slightly. Chris was like a mentor to John, and he felt awkward about Chris noticing how badly he had to pee. He wondered if he had even seen him squirming in front of the urinal, with a hint of embarrassment.
What's with me lately, anyway, John thought to himself as he walked back to his desk, his underclothes mercifully remaining dry. I'm out here doin' a potty dance in front of the pisser like a sophomore standing in line for the bathroom at his first kegger. He drifted away from this train of thought, sighing as he returned to his desk. In what little remained of his work day, he set his mind to figuring out where the vacant plot of land could fit men's and women's bathrooms that would comply with the local zoning laws.
It wasn't until a fishing trip with his old buddy Jake that he decided he might be in need of some medical attention. That Saturday morning, they set out to the lake making excellent time. John wore a pair of dusty white sneakers, some light tan fishing shorts with plenty of pockets, a worn t-shirt branded with the logo of a state park he'd visited in his twenties, and a gray baseball cap that was beginning to fray at the brim, as he drove on to the highway, then turned onto a road that got slightly bumpier as they approached the lake. About forty minutes into the drive, Jake noticed John tapping his left foot nonstop, with the occasional squirm as he pursed his lips and dug his pelvis into the driver's seat. Looks kinda like my nephew on our road trip to Alabama last year after one too many cans of Coke, Jake thought to himself.
"D'you wanna pull over, dude?" he asked John.
"Pull over for what?" he replied, hardly listening as he stared down the road in front of him. He had no clue what Jake was suggesting.
"So you can — ah, never mind," dropping the subject. They were nearly there, anyway.
Eventually they made it out onto the lake, where the chill of being out on the water seemed to make John's need worse. His fidgeting got so bad that it caused the lightweight aluminum boat to rock, John seated on the edge while Jake sat beside the cockpit, his legs dangling down into the well of the vessel as he tried to hook some bait. As a sudden breeze caused John to bolt upright and shudder, the boat pitched in John's direction, causing Jake to nearly prick his thumb.
"Why dontcha sit still, man," Jake shot at John, exasperated.
"Aw fuck. I'm sorry." John sighed deeply, staring out at the water. "My back teeth are floatin' out here," he muttered, shaking his head as he turned away from Jake and started pissing off the stern, a few drops landing on the deck before he managed to direct a full-bore jet into the lake.
Jake paused what he was doing, staring for a moment as it registered what was happening. Then he began to laugh heartily, deep belly laughs with pauses to breathe. John used his free hand to flip off his friend from over his shoulder.
"So much for your steel bladder," Jake said, getting up to do the same. He fished himself out and pointed over the port. His stream was relaxed and unhurried as he stared down and watched ragged concentric circles rippling out from where he aimed. "Usually I'm the one whizzing in the lake," he mused distantly. "Maybe you gotta get that prostate checked out."
John scoffed. "What am I, some fuckin' boomer?" His stream was still as loud as it was when he started urinating.
"All right, take it easy! I'm just sayin'," Jake relented. He was done already, forcing out another few spurts before he shook himself dry with two quick, firm squeezes down his hose before zipping back up. "Sometimes the forties is when it starts." Jake was right, John thought. This wasn't like him at all.
A few weeks later, John found himself seated in the urologist's office, as unsure how he'd gotten into this situation as he was whether Dr. Harris would help him.
*************************
John disliked the idea of having to go to the urologist, and now that he was sitting in Dr. Harris' lobby he liked it even less. So he was pissing like a racehorse now and again. Wasn't that good? Wasn't that how stuff was supposed to work down there? Healthy kidneys, healthy bladder. Everything else seemed to be in working order. Certainly no complaints from the missus, he smirked with private satisfaction, reveling in his undiminished potency. He was interrupted from this train of thought by the receptionist, who poked her head above the counter to address John.
"Sir, Dr. Harris will see you now."
John went in and shook hands with Dr. Harris. John had simply skimmed the directory of his insurer's in-network doctors and went with the urologist that was closest for him to get to. He didn't know anything else about Dr. Harris except his name.
"Will you tell me what brings you here today," he said, riffling through John's medical chart in no apparent order.
"Well," John said, taking a deep breath, "I dunno but lately ..." John paused to gather his thoughts. What was his problem? Did he have a problem? He thought back to his close call at the office urinals, and cringed. "I think something's wrong with how I'm peeing."
"What do you mean 'you think.'" It was a question, but Dr. Harris spoke it with the prosody of a statement.
John looked down at the floor, scratching his crewcut reddish-brown hair near his left temple as he started over. "I mean, it's coming out — I'm having no problem with the flow, is what I'm saying. But. Out of nowhere I'll get these urges. And then I gotta hold on as I'm getting to the bathroom. Like, the other day —"
"Are you experiencing increased urgency, or increased frequency," Dr. Harris cut him off. John thought for a moment, his arms now folded across his chest.
"Uhh, both, actually. I can get to the pis— the bathroom just fine. That's not the problem. But I'll be in a work meeting, or out on a trip somewhere, and I'll get that urge to go so strong that it makes me think, shoot, I gotta find a bathroom somewhere."
"I see," the urologist replied. He had just finished reading the page summarizing John's most recent physical. He had not turned to face John once, since they shook hands. He now put down the chart, and cleared his throat.
"Well, your physician just did your physical and he didn't spot anything out of the ordinary there. So there's not much use in doing a prostate exam today. It never hurts to take a urine sample, so I'll order some labs for you on the way out today."
Dr. Harris now leaned back in his chair slightly and looked John in the eyes, holding his gaze briefly. John wasn't sure what he was thinking.
"Do you urinate outside the bathroom at all, John?"
John was slightly taken aback by the question, though he didn't show it. What man doesn't, he couldn't help thinking. John curled his lips and began to smile, laughing politely under his breath. Dr. Harris was unwavering.
"Not usually, Doc ..." John began to search backward in time mentally. "Like, if I'm out on a boat and there's no bathroom, I'll go over the side of the boat sometimes. If I really gotta." John paused, his hands folded in his lap. "We've got a really big backyard and if I'm pulling weeds or mowing the grass, sometimes I'll stop and just go in a corner somewhere, y'know. Faster than having to walk inside. That way I don't get the floor dirty." Dr. Harris nodded, remaining silent.
"Why," John said, breaking the silence. "Something wrong?"
Dr. Harris hemmed, not really answering John. "I see this a lot in men your age. We're just going to have to deal with this once and for all," he proclaimed, grabbing some pamphlets from a drawer by his desk. He handed them to John, looking him in the eyes again.
"I'm going to recommend a course of bladder training. It'll help you regain control over your bladder and improve your overall urinary health."
John furrowed his brow at the thought of such a regimen. "Bladder training? Training to do what?"
Dr. Harris explained, "You'll keep a log of your bathroom visits, and we'll work on gradually reducing the frequency over time. It's about retraining the muscles and nerves of your bladder, so that you can cope with the urge to urinate better, and build better habits."
Just hearing the urologist say that gave John a twinge. He pressed his thighs together, he hoped imperceptibly. John gulped with anxiety, but nodded, mustering his resolve.
"Better habits?"
Dr. Harris nodded. "This urinating-in-your-backyard business can't continue. You don't want to be like those men in their sixties who can't go anywhere without knowing the location of every bathroom in advance, do you?"
That was what John thought the doctor meant, but hearing him say it out loud made him feel judged. His warning even echoed his retort to his friend Jake on the fishing boat to an uncomfortably close degree. Thoughts of a shot bladder in a decade or two's time lingered in his mind. John was used to being in charge of his own life and his routine. The thought of having to alter his schedule so that he could always take a potty break if he needed one felt like a social death to him. His mind recoiled from the very idea of it.
"I guess not."
"No, you don't. So give those a read and come back to me in a month. I want to see your log filled out every day. Understood?"
"Alright, Doc. Let's give it a shot."