I was twenty-two years old standing at the urinal in my favorite watering hole, the Suzy-Q Bar and Grill. I had been taught that particular lesson most boys learn in school. Those that don’t, should. You stand straight up to do your business, make necessary adjustments to the left or right to protect the privacy of your Willy-Worm, Johnson, Peesqueeter, penis, whatever you wanna call it.
There is usually a mirror above that white porcelain-stainless steel trough. One must be careful to give no indication that he waited too long and it feels so good to finally take a pee. Well, this particular time an old man a couple of stands away was obviously interested, and too damned interested in my business. “Don’t worry, kid,” he grinned, “I’m just admirin’ yer pressure. I had pressure like that when I was a kid.”
I didn’t take the time to knock the dew off my lily, give it the customary three shakes, or anything else for that matter. I put it away and got the hell out o’ there. Sittin’ in the basement bathroom of my home, yeah, I sit down to do it now, I listen as my ten-year-old grandson enters the bathroom upstairs and jus’ lets ‘er rip. In a time-stop instant, I understand what that old man was talking about. He’s long gone with all my whiskey bar drinking pals. Seems like we just don’t know what we got until we don’t.