So I was on my way to LAX a couple of days ago to catch a flight.
My shuttle driver was a tall and happy-go-lucky Egyptian dude whose name I can’t pronounce so I’ll call him Aladdin.
Aladdin was taking his sweet time flying our little magic carpet through the suburbs of Los Angeles because “highway too busy.”
Apparently he realized—after we had traveled about 2.3 miles within the span of an hour—that this was a dumb idea. He hopped onto the 101 right where it meets the 405 and 5 and of course, we were immediately met with traffic at a dead stop. I silently cursed him.
The only other passenger in the shuttle, an older Japanese man who spoke broken English, remained quiet as well. I’ll call him Mr. Miyagi.
As we crept forward in the morning fog (or smog, I’m never sure) the minutes were quickly counting down until we would be at risk for missing our flight.
Despite his kind-intentioned obliviousness to the all-consuming black syphillis that is Los Angeles traffic at 8am, Aladdin was a really nice guy—so I kept quiet about my concerns and just chatted along with him.
About 45 minutes from the airport, things took a turn. At first, I felt merely a pressure on my bladder. I scolded myself internally for chugging a bunch of water right before getting in the van. About 10 minutes later I was praying to whatever deities exist that I be saved from pissing/puking all over myself.
I kept talking myself down. You can hold it. No big deal.
But this was no ordinary urination. This was a thousand demons stabbing the inside of my bladder and kidneys with rusty boot-knives. This was pure hell. The piss needed out. Now.
I continued to try and talk myself down until it seriously felt like my insides were going to explode (literally) all over the seat.
This is where my awkwardness made the situation even more interesting.
“Dude, I know this is gonna sound weird, but I need you to stop somewhere, like, RIGHT NOW. I have to pee really bad. Like really bad.”
“You need to stop right now?” Aladdin asked.
After his response, I guess I was worried that, with us already being late due to Aladdin’s poor attempt at a “shortcut”, my forced pit-stop would upset Mr. Miyagi in the back. So, I attempted a proactive apologetic explanation—the origin of which puzzles me to this moment:
“Yes, sorry but I have a kidney condition. So when I have to go, I have to go.”
“Oh really, wow!”
“Yeah.”
“Okay my friend, I will stop right away. Are you on … uhh … the dialysis?”
“Uhhh … no, not yet … we’re hoping it doesn’t get to that.” Who’s we? Should I make up a doctor? A concerned girlfriend?
“Ahhh yes, that is good. Changing diet then, or you are taking medication?”
Uhhh…
“Well right now the doctor has me drinking water all the time, which—you see—explains why I have to pee so bad.”
“Yes, yes, lot’s of water!” He agreed.
Mr. Miyagi spoke up from the back, “And beeuhh.”
“Yes!” Aladdin laughed, “beer is good for the kidneys!”
Inside my bladder, an angry porcupine was doing combat yoga. The cognitive ability to continue fabricating my bum kidney story was quickly fading.
“Yeah,” I was wincing, “beer … sounds good … drinking anything sounds great right now.”
I wondered if I’d have a real kidney condition by the time the day was over.
Then I saw a Mobil station ahead on the right: Sweet redemption was within sight. The piss-angels of salvation played their penis trumpets in mighty glory. I felt my body giving up all hope as I lifted a shaky hand towards the gas station, just in case Aladdin hadn’t spotted it.
“Here we go,” Aladdin said calmly as he pulled into the station.
I had the door open before the vehicle stopped. Despite the urgency which had been more than sufficiently established, Aladdin continued to try and ask questions about my completely nonexistent kidney condition.
“Cranberry juice, this is good as well. It is good that you do not have to take dialys—”
I was standing at the door hopping up and down and wondering why this guy was still attempting to talk to me while he knew I was about to piss my pants. I gave up and shut the door mid-sentence and hobbled into the gas station.
I pushed past the clerk who was stocking shelves in the rinkydink service station and practically fell through the bathroom door.
I would like to tell you this urination was a euphoric endeavor akin to making love, a cabaret of feel-good dopamine in my brain. But it was the opposite. I don’t know if you’ve ever held in a pee so long that it actually hurts … that since your body has dedicated every available ounce of energy towards keeping the pee inside you for so long, it can’t seem to “turn off the switch” and let it out … it sucks.
I held onto the wall and twisted and turned and grimaced and gnashed my teeth. My legs shook and my guts tied themselves in knots. After a concerted effort I was finally able to relieve myself. I stumbled out of the tiny bathroom, through the gas station, and to the shuttle in a daze.
Then, for the next ten minutes, I dodged questions and bullshitted about kidney conditions and dietary habits, and counted down the seconds until I arrived at the airport. Looking back, the most incredible part about this was that despite the millions of questions he asked about “my condition”, he never once asked what it was actually called. I mean, I probably would have just made up a word and added “tosis” to the end of it and he would have been none the wiser, but still, strange he never asked.
I said and done, have to hand it to Aladdin—my wonderfully optimistic shuttle driver—for genuinely caring so much about the kidney condition I don’t actually have. And for quickly pulling into a gas station before my pants and underwear ended up in an airport bathroom trash can.
