Pee-Shy

by Frank Spinelli

Standing side by side, leaning up against a piece of porcelain, spaced at very close intervals to other men—all of them conditioned to the humiliating urinal—I stood in many bathrooms, trying to look casual, waiting for a stall to open while I watched in amazement as other men went about their business, urinating effortlessly, even conversing with one another, all the while ignoring the fact that they were performing an extremely private act. Over the years, I took mental notes as they strode up to those mounted fixtures of masculinity and wondered how they did it.

  I made multiple attempts throughout my life to use a urinal. Each time I walked up to one, I felt overcome with a peculiar sense of the unknown, as if I’d never seen one before or didn’t know how it worked. Suddenly, I felt as though I was in a school play and had forgotten my lines. Then, I became extremely anxious and imagined everyone was looking at me. In my delusion, stares drilled holes into the back of my skull. I tried to temper my breathing to avoid hyperventilation. I concentrated on the cold tile before me or let my gaze follow the sweaty pipe as it disappeared into the wall.

  Positioning myself in a tall stance, one trembling hand on the lever and the other practically choking my member, which I had pulled out through my zipper, I waited, idled, hoped, prayed, and then rationalized when nothing happened. Maybe a flush would trigger a response? I practiced this once, then twice, hoping that it would provoke a reaction. When it didn’t, I felt a twang of terror, and I hung my head in shame, staring pathetically at the marble tile under my feet.

  I could have counted on two hands how many times I’d successfully peed in public. The majority of those times occurred when I was inebriated: I was once so intoxicated at a nightclub that I pushed my way into the restroom, and noting a long line for the stalls, fearlessly walked right up to an empty urinal. Even with countless strange men standing there alongside me, I urinated effortlessly—and triumphantly. Most times, however, I was left to mimic urination by standing dumbly until two or three men had come and gone. Humiliated, I’d make a show of flushing and then walk over to the sink to rinse my hands—only to return moments later for a go in the stalls.

  In childhood, this manifested itself initially as bed-wetting. I was eleven when it began. The same year I met Bill. My mother should have been furious with me when she discovered the urine-soaked sheets stuffed into the back of my closet. I was foolish: The stench of urine permeated the bedroom. My mattress was drenched, and even my Evel Knievel comforter hadn’t been spared. Instead of going on one of her usual rampages, my mother quietly opened all the windows, washed the sheets, and carried on as if the entire incident had never happened. My bed, stripped down to the mattress, bore the only remaining piece of evidence—a yellow stain. My accident was covered up instead with a fresh set of linens and a spare down comforter.

  Two weeks later, it happened again. When I awoke in my own urine that morning, I decided not to hide the sheets. Instead, I lay in my own wet, punishing myself. This time my mother confronted me. I was sitting at my desk, studying for a social studies exam. Standing in the doorway, she said, “Is there something wrong?”

  “No,” I whispered, staring down at my book.

  “I thought I was done with babies. Only babies wet themselves. You’re supposed to grow up, not down.” I listened, tapping my pencil on my desk. “You sure there’s nothing you want to tell me, Frank?”

  “No.”

  Of course, my young brain couldn’t comprehend that I had begun to wet the bed as a way to tell my parents that Bill was molesting me. Worse still, no one in my family thought that this sudden profusion of bed-wetting was a sign that something was wrong with me. The next evening, I even heard my mother arguing with my father about it. She blamed it on him, mentioning that it ran on his side of the family. Even my two sisters understood what was going on, and it became a family secret always referred to as “Frank’s problem.”

  By fourteen, I stopped wetting the bed for good, but then something happened in my freshman year at Xaverian High School, an all-boys Jesuit preparatory school in Brooklyn. It was November 1981, and I was in my first-period Italian History class. My teacher, Mr. Sansone, had just begun lecturing when I felt the sudden urge to urinate. I tried to hold it in, but there was no use in pretending that I could wait until the end of class. Initially Mr. Sansone refused my request for a lavatory pass, but after watching me squirm nervously for several minutes, he finally gave in. I hurried down the empty hall, holding my groin and praying I wouldn’t leak.

  Inside the powder-blue restroom, I quickly unbuttoned my pants, unhooked my belt, pulled my aching penis over my white Fruit of the Loom underwear, and waited. Luckily, the lavatory was deserted and peaceful, with a faint smell of chlorine in the air. The window must have been open, because it was very cool. Standing at the urinal, staring at my penis, I sighed heavily, waiting for the urine to flow. But nothing came. Suddenly, a tangy scent filled my nostrils. Then I heard a hiccup echo from the nearby stall, followed by a relentless dry, hacking cough. A thick veil of smoke wafted over the stall and clouded me in that pungent scent. Someone was smoking pot. Footsteps clicked on the tile behind me. I turned my head around to look over my shoulder and saw Vincent Consalvo standing there, eyelids heavy, a sardonic grin on his lips and two long plumes of thick white smoke flowing out of his nostrils.

  “Spinelli,” he said. “What the fuck are you doing in here?”

  Consalvo was a tall, dark-haired senior, who looked as if he’d never exercised a day in his life but was naturally skinny. For some odd reason—probably genetics—he was thick around the middle, so his body looked misshapen.

  “Answer me,” he said now. I ignored him while I stared down at my penis, willing it to function. Consalvo had paralyzed me. There was a pause, during which I felt his presence looming behind me. “You’re not thinking about telling anyone, are you?” he whispered in my right ear. I glanced over. His dark brown eyes scanned my face. I wondered whether he could see how stunned I was. I held still and let Consalvo look.

  “No,” I blurted out. “I swear on a stack of Bibles.”

  “Then get lost.”

  “I—I will,” I stuttered. “Just let me finish.”

  “Finish then,” he said. The acrid smell of his dragon breath caused my stomach to churn.

  “I really need to pee,” I begged. “Please, just leave me alone, and I promise I won’t say anything to anyone.”

  “No way,” he said, pointing his long, bony finger at my nose. “Pee right now with me standing here.”

  “I can’t!”

  “Why not?” he shouted. “Are you some kind of fag or something?”

  I turned to run away, but Consalvo grabbed me by the back of the neck. The next thing I felt was a warm rush of wetness run down my leg. I froze, allowing Consalvo to discover what had happened. Then I heard a high-pitched cackle. As Consalvo’s grip loosened on my neck, I ran out of the lavatory. In the distance, I heard the wheeze of the pneumatic door closing behind me. Faster, I headed down the hall toward my locker so I could get my coat and escape. My wet pants leg slapped against my cold thigh as the sound of Consalvo’s laughter followed me home, and after that I was left unable to use a public urinal ever again.

  It wasn’t until I began therapy with Olga that I learned sexually abused children often start wetting the bed again as a call for help. Even though the bed-wetting stopped on its own when I became a teenager, I became profoundly pee-shy (in medical terms, paruretic).

  Paruretic for nearly three-quarters of my life, I’ve become something of an expert in the field. It affects the urinary systems of nearly 17 million adults, many of whom were molested as children. Typically, paruretics are unable to urinate in public places. As an adult, I was resigned to the fact that I could not use a public urinal. Even in the confines of a public stall, there was always the possibility that my bladder might hold me hostage, negotiating with my brain to relax so that I could simply pee.

  The morning after Paul and Luke visited my office
and told me about Father Roberts, I couldn’t even urinate at home. Was this handicap no longer just a part of me I could conceal by ducking into a vaultlike stall when I was in public? Something beyond my control was giving strength to my affliction. I worried that in time it would take over. Standing over my toilet, I stared helplessly into the medicine cabinet mirror. In that instant, I saw myself in the future being forced to wear a catheter or, even worse, bound to a dialysis machine for the rest of my life.

  THAT MORNING I GOT DRESSED and headed to my office. The sky was clear, but the air was ice-cold. As soon as I stepped outside, I realized I wasn’t wearing warm enough clothes. I bought coffee at the Dunkin’ Donuts on the corner. Cup in hand, I practically ran the entire way. Once I unlocked the front door, I felt the rush of warm air as I stepped into the vestibule. It had been a cold winter, and I’d been leaving the heat running in my office overnight. That particular morning, it was draftier than usual. I left my coat on and headed straight to my little nook in the back of the office. My teeth chattered as I sat at my desk and waited for the computer to awaken. Even with the warm coffee cup in my hands, I shivered so hard it felt as if someone was shaking me. I looked at my watch. It was just after 7:30. Once I was online, I googled William Fox.

  First, I checked the obituaries.

  Twenty years ago, while sitting around the dinner table, my mother informed my sister Josephine and me that Bill Fox had died of AIDS.

  “Get out of town,” said Josephine.

  “When did you hear that?” I asked in disbelief.

  “This morning at church,” replied my mother. “The priest said it at mass. You know when they ask everyone to pray for those who are sick or passed away.”

  Josephine was unable to hide her skepticism. “Why would a Catholic priest say that one of their parishioners died from AIDS? There’s no way they would ever mention that word in church.”

  “I’m telling you, Josephine, the priest . . . he said it,” insisted my mother, slamming her hand on the table so hard it rattled the silverware. Startled, we looked at each other with surprise. For a second, I almost broke out in laughter. My mother’s anger always brought out her thick Italian accent, making it very difficult for us to hide our smirks. Unfortunately, laughing only inflamed my mother’s fury, but Josephine had been right to question her. My mother had a reputation for making up stories. Whenever anyone tried to poke holes through her thinly constructed tale, she’d defend herself wholeheartedly, because as any good Catholic knows, it’s not a lie if you believe it’s true.

  When I was six years old, I found my pet rabbit Snowball floating in a pot of water on the kitchen stove. His white fur had been skinned off and his pink eyes were still open. My mother swore he ran away, but that was a lie. That night when she served chicken for dinner, I knew it was fried Snowball. After that day, I never trusted my mother again.

  Sitting at my desk trembling with cold that morning, I remembered the night I finally admitted to my family that Bill had molested me. It was 1981, just before my fourteenth birthday. The confession—which was how I saw it, despite the fact that I was the victim—finally came after I struggled with whether they would blame me. Ultimately, I confessed only because I wasn’t willing to go on another hiking trip with Bill.

  Over the years, my family’s response to my abuse has become a great source of guilt for them; however, neither my parents nor my sisters ever thought to correct their error in judgment. Bill’s death was the best resolution my mother could offer up as consolation, even ten years too late, and despite my disbelief, I wanted to believe Bill had died. Eventually, I accepted this information willingly, like a child clinging to the hope of Santa Claus.

  AFTER SEARCHING ONLINE FOR NEARLY AN HOUR, I was unable to locate Bill or even a reasonable match—dead or alive. This didn’t surprise me. Logically, I assumed most pedophiles would try to maintain their anonymity.

  I heard the click of the front door lock followed by the stomping of boots on the tile floor in the vestibule. Gloria had arrived. I looked at my watch. It was nearly 9 A.M. I scanned the remaining links that came up under Bill’s name, and clicked on a New York Times article written in March 1982. I sipped the remainder of my cold coffee and waited for my computer to bring up the story.

  My computer was slow that day. I stared at the screen as my leg shook up and down. Then the images began to click on one by one, and the headline appeared, “With Policeman, Boy’s Lot Is a Happy One.” It was about a seventeen-year-old named Nicholas who climbed onto the roof of a Bowery flophouse. Someone in the gathering crowd notified the police. Officer William Fox was called onto the scene. While the crowd chanted, “Jump, jump,” Fox told the homeless boy he cared and offered him the spare room in his house.

  I stared unblinking at the screen and reread the entire first paragraph. There was no photograph attached to the article, but I knew it was him. The cold coffee sat uneasily in my stomach.

  I couldn’t get the image of a suicidal teenage boy standing on a ledge out of my head. Bill must have been reassuring to Nicholas on that awful day. From experience, I knew that all it took was one look into those soft, pale blue eyes, and Nicholas would have trusted the man behind them, just as I had thirty years ago. His decision was easy: kill himself or allow this man, a police officer, to take care of him. Anyone in his situation would have done the same and reached out his hand to take Bill’s, once he saw those eyes.

  The article went on to say that the main reason Fox was able to take Nicholas in was because he lived with his widowed mother, Beatrice. Fox called her the “overall ruler of the house.” My interactions with Beatrice would never have led me to believe that she was much of a matriarch. Several times I visited their house; Bill would have me sit in the living room with her while he finished working downstairs or made phone calls. Almost a fixture in her lounge chair, she always wore the same frumpy housecoat and stared blankly at the television. She remained catatonic whenever I was there, as if Norman Bates’s mother from Psycho had developed an interest in game shows.

  The article mentioned that a writer named Noel Hynd was writing a book about Bill and Nicholas with plans for a two-hour CBS television movie to be shown in the fall. I searched online and located a used copy of the now out-of-print book. Frozen by this sudden bombardment of information, I remembered another name from my past—Jonathan, my best friend from childhood and a fellow Boy Scout. We lost contact after graduation, but we had stopped being friends even before then.

  “Doctor, your first patient is here.” Gloria poked her head in. “Excuse me, but does someone have to go make pee-pee?”

  I looked up. “What?” Gloria was staring at me with a comical expression. I realized that I was squeezing my crotch and bouncing up and down in my seat. “Oh yeah, I do have to go.”

  “Well, go now before you get backed up with patients,” she said.

  “I’ll be right there.”

  Once Gloria returned to her desk, I quickly rummaged through my briefcase and located my wallet. Typing in my credit card information, I wondered where Jonathan was now. Then I remembered what he said to me that last time he’d slept over my house, months after I had confided to his mother about what went on during those afternoons with Bill. Though Jonathan had adamantly denied that Bill had ever touched him, that night he confessed everything to me. We were bunking in my parents’ den and stayed up to talk well past lights-out. There in the dark he disclosed all the details of his experiences with Bill. “No matter what,” he whispered, “we will always be friends, right?”

  “Doctor!” Gloria called out. “The patients are waiting.”

  “I’ll be right there!”

  CHAPTER 7

  The Blame Game

  IT WAS WEDNESDAY NIGHT. I was sitting on the edge of my bed in my underwear reading e-mails when I saw one from Chad. He wrote to ask what I wanted to do on our upcoming third date. Up until that very moment, I had completely forgotten that we’d made plans.

  Since
the day I’d discovered Bill’s book, I’d felt propelled through my week in a cyclone of memories, collecting mass until I felt weighed down by them. I worked each day, forcing myself not to think of Bill (even though he was all I thought about). Each afternoon, I rushed home to check my mailbox, waiting for Bill’s memoir to arrive. It hadn’t.

  Stunned by Chad’s e-mail, and our impending date, I felt overwhelmed with anxiety. I read the last line again, “What would you like to do tomorrow? You decide.” This time I had to take charge. Immediately, I thought we should see a movie. I had this romantic notion that seeing a film, as a couple, would be something substantial we could mark our relationship by. In years to come, if we were still dating, whenever that movie played on television or if someone mentioned it in passing, Chad and I would recall it fondly as the movie we saw on one of our first dates.

  My body relaxed as I checked the movie listings. My eyes scanned the films and stopped at a comedy called Juno. Purchasing the tickets online, I reassured myself that this was an excellent idea. Then I wrote back to Chad, “Meet me at the movie theater on Twenty-third Street and Eighth Avenue at 7 P.M.” Once I hit SEND, I shut down my computer and fell back onto my bed. Staring up at the ceiling, I felt some of the heaviness of the past few days lift. In its place, I allowed some excitement to creep in. Lying there, I listened to the hum of the computer motor and made a snow angel in bed.

  Thursday flew by. After work I checked the mail: still no sign of Bill’s book. I directed my focus back to my date with Chad. In deciding what to wear, I layered a dark gray sweater over a black T-shirt and paired them with dark boot-cut blue jeans and black boots. Stepping outside that night, I noticed the rain had washed away most of the snow from the last storm. The sidewalks were still littered with mounds of residual ice blackened from passing cars and trucks. I marched steadily across Twenty-third Street with my head held down. The wind whipped violently overhead, mussing up my hair, which had been matted down perfectly with gel.