Piso Mojado
John couldn’t believe his luck. Three weeks ago, he had been a highly touted freshman, straight out of California, recruited to play basketball for the University of Wisconsin. It had looked like his lifelong dream of playing in the big dance might just come true. But all that had changed. After his accident, John had become just another college kid on crutches- a miserable, lonely gimp. John cursed the bitter mid-west weather as he downed another flat, tasteless beer. Who could have imagined that the one-time hometown hero could end up in Madison, Wisconsin, alone, unhappy, and cold?
A warm, throbbing sensation in his pants awakened John from his reverie, and suddenly John’s biggest priority became the task of relieving himself in the bathroom. John yanked his blue knit sweater towards his waist, and began the long procedure of rising from his bar stool and getting on his crutches.
What a shitty day. John thought. And what a horrible, shitty place.
“Here. Let me help you with that.” John didn’t even bother to turn around and look to see who was offering to help him.
“No thanks, I don’t need any fucking help.” John was surprised at how candidly he had responded to the stranger’s offer. He grunted as he heaved himself up, and began to march to the urinal, one crutch thrust deeply into each of his armpits.
The urinal made a faint hissing noise as John’s warm, thick urine began to spray against the porcelain backing. John realized that for the first time since his injury, he was actually happy. He was so happy that he didn’t refrain from giggling aloud as he began to spray the urinal in a circular motion. He was so happy, that he forgot all about the bright, yellow “piso mojado” sign near the entrance to the bathroom. After all, John hadn’t just noticed the sign as he had entered the bathroom; he had had the audacity to knock it over with one of his crutches before hobbling to the urinal.
In wintertime, especially in the great northern land of Wisconsin, sometimes the snow outside will melt as people enter warm places, like a bar. Often times, because many people hit the restroom before seating themselves and ordering a drink, the snow on a patron’s foot will begin to melt just as they enter a bathroom.
It follows then that as the relentless, thick crowds of zealous drinkers make their way to the bars each night, the bathrooms in these places will usually become flooded by melted snow. This often creates a dangerous situation, in which the unwary or overly drunken patron can lose their footing and slip and fall. These facts, (along with the recent trend of personal negligence law suits), have forced most bar owners to place a yellow sign in their restrooms that warns, in two languages, of the “wet floor,” or “piso mojado.” These signs are legally protective for the owners of a bar, but most people don’t even notice them, since they are about as ubiquitous as a Starbucks Coffee Shop in a mall.
Just as John was preparing to let out his final blast of testosterone-fueled piss, he began to feel himself slipping backwards. John immediately attempted to straighten himself out, by gripping his crutches tightly at each side, but this only worsened matters. As his crutches planted down into the floor, his feet swung out from under him, like a pendulum swings from its fulcrum.
John flew backwards, expecting the worst: a concussion, paralysis, even death. But just as he had resigned to the fact that he was going to split his head open on the ground, he felt two powerful hands reach out and grab both of his armpits, and suddenly he found himself hanging in the balance between life and death, with his urine still spraying out perpendicularly from his loins, only now the urine was erupting from him at a ninety degree angle from the floor and towards the ceiling above.
“Here. Let me help you with that.” This familiar stranger’s voice continued to speak. “This must be more embarrassing than having someone help you up from a bar stool, huh?”
John was too drunk to be humiliated, yet sober enough to realize the inherent irony of the situation. He lackadaisically reflected on this situation as he continued to allow his penis to dribble the last few droplets of beer infused urine from his bladder. The strange man helped him onto his feet and he zipped up his zipper, noticing that the front of his pants were thoroughly soaked.
“Fuck.” He muttered to himself. “I fucking hate Wisconsin.” John was still facing the urinal, with his back to the man who had just saved his life.
“This wasn’t Wisconsin’s fault, Buddy. Next time, instead of kicking over the wet floor sign, maybe you should reflect on the warning it provides.” John didn’t appreciate the lecture, so he didn’t bother to respond.
“And buddy?” The man continued. “You could say thanks.”
John buckled his belt, let out an obviously exaggerated sigh, and turned around in order to reluctantly thank the stranger. Much to John’s chagrin, John was looking the Dean of his department square in the eyes. John was just a number on a long roster of freshman students, and so he was sure that the Dean did not know who he was, but it was nonetheless disconcerting for John to realize that he had verbally sparred with and then urinated on the most senior faculty member of his college.
“Uh, can I buy you a beer?” John asked.
The Dean smiled. “How about you work on your inside game, and make us all real proud next season. And then, the year after that, when you’re twenty-one, you can buy me a beer. Okay, buddy?”
