I Just Need to Take a Pee
The guy with the billyclub
standing outside the men’s room
insists I have to show him my birth certificate
before he’ll let me take a pee.
It reminds me of when I was thirty
and a bartender carded me
when I tried to buy a whiskey sour.
Who carries a birth certificate around with them?
“Look, I just need to pee,” I plead,
but the man won’t permit access,
like a bouncer in a bar,
big muscles, tight tee shirt, goatee.
“How much are you getting paid to do this job?”
I have a vague idea I might bribe him,
but he doesn’t respond.
“It’s the law,” he clarifies,
though not really apologizing.
I really have to pee,
so I head across the street to the Starbucks
which has a unisex bathroom and no armed guard.
But I make a mental note to research incontinence medicines
like the ones on TV where the woman discovers
her need to pee is interfering with her shopping
and draws the line. The last straw.Enough is enough, right?