It wasn't fancy. One bedroom at the end of a hallway. I lived upstairs from my parents. I wasn't allowed to have girls over. But it was mine. At the time, my family was living in Germany in military housing. We lived in an apartment building where each stairwell had six apartments (two per floor), and on the top floor, there were old maids' quarters, from back when being an American serviceman overseas was akin to being a Chicago alderman today - swimming in bitches and money. The maids' quarters consisted of a locked hallway that contained three small bedrooms and a bathroom. Tradition dictated that the three families in the stairwell who had been there the longest got the rooms, and then when one of them got reassigned and moved, the senior of the newest three families got that room, ad infinitum. When our family's turn came to pass, I asked my parents if I could use our room as my bedroom. It wasn't a (completely) unreasonable request: my family's apartment was directly beneath the small room, so I would be close to family. Plus, our room was directly over my parents' bedroom, so they would hear if I was up to shenanigans of the female kind. And before anyone asks, to my everlasting shame, I never got freaky with a girl in my bachelor pad. I guess it just never occurred to me. ...Or something? Man, I suck.
Anyway, the room. My mother, of course, was against it, but my dad, having been a bit of a player himself, saw a chance for me to seek some independence and stop sharing a room with my little brother. So I got the room. It was sweet as hell. Room for my twin bed, a small dresser, and a little desk. On that dresser? A 9" black and white television. So, to recap, at ten years old I had my own apartment with a TV. If it would have had a little fridge, I would have been elected king of the elementary school. I even had my own keys - one key for the door at the end of the hallway, which all three families had, and a key for my room, which only myself and my parents had. I was living the life.
Time for an aside. When I was five, my father came into the living room and found me holding a kitten over my head. Our cat (Kinky) had recently had a litter of kittens which my parents hadn't managed to yet give away. My father asked me what I was doing. I told him that I heard at school that if you drop a cat it will land on its feet. My dad confirmed that to me. I told him I had to find out for myself. He told me that by doing so I could hurt the cat and I should just take his word for it. I reiterated that I had to know for myself. He told me that if I dropped the kitten, I was grounded for two weeks. As he tells it, I looked between him and the kitten for a good minute before finally whispering, "Dad, I gotta know." So I dropped the cat, it landed on its feet and was fine, and without being prompted, I headed for my room, knowing full well what grounded meant. As I was leaving the room and my father was dealing with the realization that I would either become a Nobel-winning scientist or a genocidal dictator, I stopped and said, "I wish I hadn't done that." Then I went to my room to serve my time. But I had to know for myself.
I tell you that to explain the following. During the utopian period of my childhood when I had my own pad, my family was traveling through West Germany on the autobahn (which is German for paved automobile conveyance surface), and we stopped at a German truck stop. Their truck stops are very different from ours in America. First off, they're on the metric system, so they're only six feet tall. Plus, all their gas is sold in liters, so it doesn't get you nearly has high as the gas here. While there I went into the bathroom, and was amazed at the color of the water in the toilet. I remember thinking, "My God, how many times would you have to pee in a toilet without flushing for it to get that color?" Sure, I could have consulted a scientist or a book, but that wouldn't be learning, would it? Fortunately for me, I had access to a toilet that no one peed in but me.
So I started my experiment. Despite wanting to turn back on more than one occasion, I pressed on. I even made my friends refrain from flushing when they came over (not a hard sell for ten year olds), but I dutifully counted their toilet usage in my logbook. Yes, I said logbook.
Do you know how many times it takes to get that awesome shade of yellow/gold I saw that day? It's not 24. I don't know how many it actually is, but I know it's not 24. And I know that because the teenage bitch from the second floor talked her parents into letting her live up there, too. I assume the argument went, "If a ten year old boy can, why can't I?" To which I assume her parents replied, "Because that little mother fucker has mad $killz that we respect all day, son." But she eventually got her wish, and during the move-in, felt the need to pee. And that was that. She was so disgusted that she scrubbed the entire bathroom and had a lock put in. And she didn't give me a key! They said I could come down to the second floor apartment when I needed the key. I overheard her arguing with my mother and she said, "He wasn't even flushing!" I didn't want to explain why I wasn't flushing. Suddenly in retrospect, it felt silly.
Well, you science-hating harpy, I've changed my mind. Much as Einstein came up with the courage to print his 1905 essays on electrodynamics and special relativity, I'm here to reclaim peeing. That was my experiment. I'm sure you're out there somewhere right now upset because your first grandkid was born out of wedlock, wondering where you went wrong. Since I don't know you and can't exactly remember your name, I don't know for sure, but I'll bet you're to blame. You probably never encouraged your kids' desire to learn, instead ramming rote memorization, adherence to structured learning, and your dictatorial mandate that they flush the toilet. You are reaping the wretched harvest you sowed yourself. You are all that is wrong with the world. You are the earthquake that kills thousands. You are the tsunami that destroys hope. You are the network executive who chooses to cancel excellent television shows before they have a chance to thrive.
I hope you're happy with yourself. Two lives were lessened on the the day you killed science. And to think how different it could have been. If, instead of stabbing a child's dream in the face with a salad fork, you had instead trekked to the end of the hallway (because much as on a school bus, the cool kids reside in the back) and knocked on my door, we could have been so right together. I would have taken your hand, laid you on my twin bed, asked you to ignore the smell of my clothes hamper, and we could have made sweet, scientifically-driven love. Then afterwards we could have worked together to solve the great problems of our era, including that situation with the pee in the toilet.
I'll bet it was 26 times. Damn, I was so close.
No comments:
Post a Comment