There’s this dude who lives in the apartment above ours. I am certain of it now.
For the longest time, I wasn’t sure if it was a guy or a gal, but I knew our upstairs neighbor was mostly quiet. The only annoyance was the once a month or so when he/she/it apparently overslept, and at 6:36 AM (and at exactly that time every time)…
THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP as he/she/it walked from his/her/its bed to the bathroom. But walking isn’t the right word. Neither is stomping. I need a word for a step that’s heavy and anxious because the walker is in a massive hurry. Let’s go with “hanxious,” shall we?
THUMP THUMP THUMP as he/she/it hanxiously hurried to the closet.
THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP as he/she/it hanxiously hustled to the kitchen. THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP as he/she/it hanxiously came back to the bedroom. THUMP THUMP THUMP. Back to the closet. THUMP THUMP. To the bed to sit down and put on socks. THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP. Back to the kitchen. Then he/she/it would hanxiously hustle out the door by 6:41 AM, and I could go the fuck back to sleep.
I never made a big deal about it. For one, I’m living in an apartment. A little noise above me from time to time is expected, and I’m not going to be the princess in apartment B. Two, I’ve overslept a time or two in my day. Even in my annoyed grogginess, I felt for him/her/it. I hate that feeling of needing to have been gone fifteen minutes before.
Anyway, I never knew if it was a guy or a girl living up there. And let’s be honest. I was probably never going to know. This is 2017. We don’t do weird shit anymore, like actually meet our neighbors. Instead I just always pictured it to be either some emaciated still somethingteen pimple-covered computer geek, or some overly obese couch potatoesque adult. The footsteps were so heavy on those hanxious mornings that it was either a young skinny person who hadn’t learned how to walk lightly, or a heavy person whose anxiety made him forget how to walk without lead feet.
I actually didn’t care one bit how old or how fat or how anything my neighbor was, so long as they only bugged the shit out of me once a month. But then, a few months ago our bathroom trips aligned with one another. I woke up at 6:35 AM to pee. I was sitting half-asleep on the John, and…
Yeah. I sit on the fucking toilet to pee when I’m at home. Get over it. I do not understand why dudes stand up in their own bathrooms and spray pee everywhere in the name of being a man. Its my bathroom. I don’t want pee on the seat, and the walls, and the base of the toilet, and on the floor. So I sit down.
The guy living above me apparently does not agree or has not figured that out yet. Actually, let me rephrase that. The MAN above me apparently does not agree or has not figured that out yet.
THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP. He was having an oversleep-the-alarm-clock morning. I looked at the time. 6:37. Right on schedule, I thought, as his hanxious steps halted directly above me. I beat you this time.
What came next had me neither doubting his gender, or the caliber of sausage he carried betwixt his legs.
I am not a real man, I thought, as I listened to a goddamn firehose start hitting the surface of the water in the toilet above me. I’m talking POWER. FORCE. STREAM. LONGEVITY. All the things you’d expect to come out of the end of a firehose after its been hooked to a hydrant.
And there I was, tinkling like a little girl into my big girl potty. I almost expected a real adult to come in and give me a gold sticker for it.
All peeing positions aside… And besides being thoroughly impressed with what I was hearing… If I could have looked at my prostate in that moment, I would have. I would have shaken my head in disappointment and asked it where and when it had decided that the capacity to produce powerful pee wasn’t worth it anymore. I would have asked it why it had been getting in the way of me being a real man lately. I would have asked it if it felt proud of itself. Then my prostate would have looked back at me and said, “don’t blame me dude. You’re on the uphill to 40. Shut up and finish your little tinkle, old man.” I would have looked back at my prostate and said, “you shut up. Fucker. I’m not going on 40.” And I’d finish my tinkle in sleepy denial.
Now, in all fairness, I shouldn’t be sexist. I don’t know that the firehose force above me deduces that it has to be a male living up there. It could be the world’s most ferocious female urinator. It could also be a chick with impeccable aim, a powerful stream, and the sheer talent to pee standing up.
Assuming it is a guy, I also don’t know that it means he has a firehose between his legs. He could be blessed with a Vienna sausage only, albeit a Vienna sausage with all the peeing heart in the world. If that’s the case, I highly encourage him to start sitting down while he pees, as well. I’d imagine a Vienna sausage would be a lot harder to aim with that kind of racehorse force flowing through it. I’ve never, after all, seen a fireman handle a firehose one-handed. That thing’d go everywhere.
Anyway… This shit got weird. Now you know why I wanted a separate blog. That was a lot of words to say what a caveman would have blogged on his cave wall:
Man pee like elephant. Other man feel old.
Dan Pearce, The Dan Pearce Blog