I'm driving a scenic byway
somewhere in the North Cascades.
Somewhere off the main freeway.
I'm nearly out of gas
and feeling a little worried
about finding a gas station.
There's a small town nearby
and I hope it has one
but for some reason I decide
to pull over on the outskirts
of town where there's a siding
in a wooded area.
I walk the half-mile or so
to the town, keeping a lookout
for a gas station. (The logic
of why I'm doing this on foot
fails me now as I write this
but maybe it has something to do
with not wanting to be seen
as a city slicker too abruptly
entering the town.)
I do indeed locate a gas station
and make the discovery—
a pleasantly surprising one—
that gas is only forty-eight
cents per gallon. Suddenly
I realize I need to pee.
There's a restroom in a kind of
trailer behind the gas station.
It's tiny, like an airplane toilet
but with an even lower ceiling.
I step inside and as I stoop
and fumble with my fly
I lose control and pee in my pants.
A little. I don't think it's a lot.
But when I look down to inspect,
it's quite visible: a wet spot
the size of my fist on the front
of my light kaki shorts.
I finish peeing, without
wetting myself further
and then ponder going back
to my car and whether
I have something
to change into.
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