A story which is fiction in case my dad reads it

My dad (a made-up person’s dad) and I (but not really me, you understand) drove an hour to pick up his car from the shop, a special shop which only exists an hour away. I require a little reward for such a trip and my dad knows this, so we wound through a confusing parking lot and threaded my little hatchback into the drive-thru of a Taco Bell. We talked about life and drank Baja Blast and then we went to get his car.

The special shop lived in a maze of industry, crowds of buildings with garage entrances in lieu of front doorways, a blanket of concrete in between and not a breath of greenery to be seen. He left to go speak to the mechanic. I had to wait for confirmation that his car was good to go, as not to abandon my dad so far from home if there was an issue. I waited and scrolled through my phone and watched the battery get lower and the last of my Baja Blast diminish, and the ice melted and I drank that too.

I texted him for an update. He replied. There was a problem with the tire rotation or alignment or something. Something about the tires. I’m not the right brand of lesbian to understand.

Too much time passed. I had to pee. I texted my dad again: “do they have a bathroom?” because I could not bear the following scene in my head: me walking into a shop full of car fellas, declaring that I have to pee, only to be told no but now they know I’m just standing around full of pee. I don’t know if this makes sense if you don’t have social anxiety.

My dad doesn’t reply to my text. I am deeply feeling the betrayal of the Baja Blast on this day. Less and less can I ignore it. The maze of industry offers not even the less dignified of options: no open businesses, no bushes, no grass, no trees, nothing save for the fact that it is getting late in the day and there is not a human soul in sight.

I have an idea: the Baja Blast which was my downfall could yet prove to be my salvation. I climb into the backseat of my little hatchback and thank somebody’s god that I’m wearing stretchy joggers. I position the cup, and I loosen the tension in me just a little, just to make sure the angle is right.

If you don’t have a dick, you know that aiming this kind of thing can be a tricky business. I had a wad of Taco Bell napkins and some sanitizer ready for when I inevitably peed on my hand. But that’s just the thing: I know I peed, but it did not go in the Baja Blast cup, nor was it on my pants or my hand. It wasn’t anywhere.

The vanishing pee frightened me, and I gave up this solution immediately. But you know you can’t just let a little out and survive. I was desperate, and my desperation drove me to a dark place: the concrete on the other side of my car. There was no one around, but I knew that could change any minute. I squatted, my whole ass out because again, no dick, and I pissed like it was an Olympic sport. Images of pressure washing a porch came to mind, and so did a podcast I listened to recently about how easy it is to get labeled a sex offender and how hard it is to live with. A nearby cat watched me with a great deal of judgment.

In record time, I was tidied with papery Taco Bell napkins and sitting back in my little hatchback. The sun kindly eased below the horizon enough that it was too dark to see the wet concrete.  Soon after, my dad came out. His car was done. We both drove to a nearby gas station to fuel up before we drove home.

“Oh!” he said to me as he began pumping his gas. “I just saw your text. Did you need to run to the bathroom?”

I looked at him. He could not know what I had done. It was early COVID time, so it was possible the gas station bathroom would not be open. I am not such a grand actress as to nail the charade that might follow.

I said, “You know how sometimes you have to pee and then for some reason it just goes away after a while?”

He thought about this, and he nodded.

“Yeah. My doctor explained it to me once, but I still don’t really get how it works. So weird.”

“So weird.”

A.H. is a queer artist for funsies and queer nonprofit employee for worksies. She’s got a cool dad, but even the coolest dads could use a cool ten years before learning the sins of their daughters. Her regular order is a crunchwrap with no tomatoes and a baja blast.

%d bloggers like this: