I really, really have to pee. I started to notice it was getting pretty bad halfway home on the school bus. The bumping around that is mostly unnoticeable when your bladder is empty certainly becomes problematic with a full bladder. I cross my little legs and shift my school books. The bus lurches to a halt and I step down to the street. I sigh heavily as I begin the half mile walk to my house. I live in a comfortable neighborhood with big, wide streets and shady trees. There are people in their yards here and there but I don’t know anyone and am too shy to ask to use their toilet. Plus, mom and dad say never to talk to strangers anyway. I walk as quickly as my short legs can manage and eventually I see my dog, Lassie, on her familiar street corner a block from my house. Almost home. Lassie waits for me, patiently, her tail wagging slowly at first, then furiously by the time I get to her. I don’t stop to pet her like I usually do and she falls into step behind me has I hurry. It’s getting so bad I really don’t know if I’m going to make it. I get to my front porch and run up the steps and grab the door handle like it is my saving grace. It’s locked. Oh noooooo! I push the doorbell repeatedly but I know that is useless. Mom isn’t home on Mondays and she always leaves the door open for me but it’s locked for some reason and I don’t have a key. My upper lip is sweating as it now occurs to me I don’t know what to do and I just cannot hold it any longer.
Then I hear a boy-voice behind me.
Its my brothers friend, Joe Bench. Gary is two years older than me and so are the posse of boys in his gang. Joe is quiet and has never teased me like the others.
I don’t turn around when he asks me if Gary is home, my hand still on the door handle.
No, I answer meekly, Gary is not home.
I feel the warm pee running down my leg silently taking me to my emotional grave. It forms a puddle at my feet, pausing first to fill my shoe. I can smell it.
Did he see?
I know he does. How could he not?
I am frozen in this tiny pee hell and don’t move a twitch.
Joe simply says to let Gary know he came on by. I cautiously glance up to see him readjusting his ball cap as he turns to walk back down the porch steps. I exhale heavily as I realize he is not going to point out the obvious or worse, laugh.
My mom pulls into the driveway just then and I quietly start to cry my relief.
65 years later I still remember Joe’s gallantry that day with his silence.
And he never told my brother either.