Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
It was Central Idaho on a morning steeped in slows with pain coming on in headers, fluky
gusts and pangs, like yesterday. Oh, God. Some guys time their longest pisses to know when
a world record is being set. I wondered if I should have begun timing the interval between
rolling the legs over the side and standing up. Should I have begun then? I wondered if setting
that measure aside indicated an improving attitude.
What would be the point, other than recording another decline? Now where's that?
At.
I knew how to untangle the Gordian knot of inertia: slowly, one strand at a time. I also
knew which strands came first but I needed a minute to sort them. I moved the first strand,
rising and stepping to the sink to brush the teeth, but I stopped over the sink to wonder what
the hell I could be thinking with a bladder so full it had kept me uncomfortable all the way
through the prime filet of the entire night's slumber, five to seven. That was the first strand,
the order of the thing, and I got it tangled.
The lizard drained for what was surely a world record piss as I wondered where was my
watch to make it official. That had to be four minutes. But I was only fooling myself. Old guys
piss longer because of reduced pressure and flow, because of the swelling prostate gland that
impinges on the ureter, and no matter how many times the doctor sticks his thumb up your
ass and squeezes, it will swell. Tequila, beer, red meat? Fuck.
Hey, when does a guy know he's in trouble? When he feels both the doctor's hands on his
shoulders during the prostate exam. Joel stared, obviously wishing nobody would tell him that
joke again. Joel is my doctor. He's only thirty-eight.
Back in Idaho I was getting a memo from the interior that seemed like a certain thumbs
up on a turn and squat, and I couldn't help but wonder if my rib eye had been knocking cotton
during my prime filet. And to what, Mother Nature, do I owe this honor?
I thought it was only a fart, and I'd be better of waiting on coffee, about a half pound of
fresh fruit, a couple over easy, toast and some Tater Tots—hey, we were on the road, where
you eat what's available—to establish adequate back pressure to jettison the entire load, be-
cause you don't really get a decent second chance, on the go with all those layers to peel off.
Well, hell, things would be much easier today. But I went ahead with some tap water and a
stool softener, single dose, to better manage the process and minimize collateral damage—as
if the old dukey chute was a vintage unit itself, in need of meticulous care. Then again, there
weren't no
as ifs
about it, and the exhilarating return is often as great—vintage cars and mo-
torcycles, old assholes. What's the diff? Talk about a symptom of the aging process; you know
you're getting old when getting lucky means success on a major dump. Pay attention. Don't
squeeze. But don't linger.
I didn't crash. I only dreamed of crashing. I couldn't tell the difference anymore. Maybe I
didn't want to. The fuck was that? Well, I knew what it was. It wasn't a subconscious fear of
