Wet Jeans & Butterflies
a classic "is this is a date or a friend hang" mystery goes tits-up during a bathroom emergency
My 9 year old stepson recently discovered Truth or Dare. I’m not sure which of his friends is responsible for bringing this curse upon our house and so far he’s refused to give a name. When I picked him up from school last week I scanned the faces of his classmates, huddled together in the cold, certain I could sniff out the guilty simply by looking at them. At first I was convinced it was Hank because he lorded over the other children with the Draconian air of someone who likes to inflict pain, but then I realized he was just a foot taller than everyone and probably very nice. I asked if Stepson had learned it from Youtube Kids, a merciless institution responsible for such recent atrocities as Baby Shark and karaoke juggling. The answer was no.
I’d set off on this truth crusade after a harrowing round of Truth or Dare the week previous while riding the B train to the Museum of Natural History. I was taking Stepson to see the butterfly exhibit, an afternoon excursion I’d chosen specifically for its tranquility. But god laughs loudest when a plan is declared, and two minutes into the journey, he handed me his half eaten lemon loaf and grinned.
“Truth or dare.”
Knowing my “dare” options were risky on a crowded train with an imaginative child, I chose truth and braced for impact.
“Have you ever peed or pooped yourself?”
I paused here. The out was clear.
“Yes. When I was 4.”
“NO. Have you ever peed or pooped yourself as a GROWN UP.”
The irony of being a professional actor and a terrible liar is a daily yolk, so it was under its weight that I croaked the following story:
In 2014, I flew to New Jersey to shoot a deodorant commercial. I’d booked the national spot just in time to get fired from my twelfth waitressing job, a west village scotch bar run by an Irishman, a Scotsman, and one very serious five foot Glaswegian woman called Mary. The four years I’d spent working for them were blithe and boozy and buoyed by the stupidity of youth. Everyone slept with everyone, everyone drank everything, and occasionally this happened, simultaneously, on the clock. But after a decade waiting tables, I was burnt out and sick of spending ten hour shifts describing oysters to finance bros in boat shoes, usually after a full day of auditions and rehearsals. The hours were long and the west village clientele was awful (I now live in the west village); my ass was grabbed, my feet were wrecked and, in one particularly fun situational comedy, my Aussie coworker began referring to me as simply “Lez.” Hey Lez, do any scissoring last night? My bosses mostly tolerated my teeming resentment for the job until at last one night, a finance bro snapped at me to get my attention while yelling “Brunette Girl! Can we order in this century?” He was already drunk and had the air of the type of rich white country club boy I like to refer to as “Roofie Wainwrights.” I’d spent the day auditioning for a diaper radio commercial and contesting a dental bill, and my rope had, as it were, run out. I crossed the restaurant to him with a twisted smile and bent down until were were at eye level.
My breath was hot.
“Hi, quick question.”
“Yah?”
“Do I look like a poodle?”
“What?”
“Do. I. look like. A poodle. To you.”
“Um….no? Why.”
“Because you snapped at me like you were trying to guide me though a little competition hoop at a British dog show and it isn’t very nice. My name is Jen and you’re more than welcome to use that to get my attention, but in the meantime, if waiting an extra thirty seconds to order your big boy beef is the worst problem you have today, you lead a very charmed life.”
And then, the supercilious twisting of the straight man’s mouth; the furrowed brow; the guttural clicking. He sat like this for a nanosecond, a gothic grotesque in Geoffrey Beene, before bellowing “Okay yah, where the FUCK is your manager?” But the manager didn’t need to be found, because he was standing right behind me and had heard the entire exchange. His face was crimson and he said to me, simply, through clenched teeth, “You’re done.” And I really was. I really was fucking done being sexually harassed by sweaty chefs with bad tattoos and refunding “bad wine” for hot girl weekenders whose knowledge of wine rivaled my knowledge of Norwegian fish traps. I was lucky to have a job that (mostly) kept a roof over my head but I was disheartened and I was tired. I walked out of the scotch bar that night and spent my last ten bucks on a shot of well tequila at Julius, New York’s oldest gay bar and safe space for a girl in an apron to tired-cry.
And so.
Broke and jobless and angry at myself for both, I’d leapt in the air when my agent called with the news that I’d booked a national commercial. The spot was hip and clever and it would star myself and another actress in the short scene. I arrived to my fitting the first day and spotted her across the production office having her measurements taken. From the way she had the seamstress laughing, I knew she was the kind of plucky I’d like and we smiled at each other with a polite nod. The wardrobe tape on the garment bag hanging behind her read “Bebe” and I said it three times in my mind, just like my Grandma taught me. (Say someone’s name thrice and you’ll never forget it. Unless it’s Petunia or Zaccarius or something equally impossible, in which case you might want to write it down.)
The shoot day was long but fun. Bebe had an acerbic wit and a the face of a 1970’s folk singer; world-weary but sun kissed, affable and quick to wink. We spent time between takes riffing and bemoaning shitty jobs, the economy, dating apps. The latter led to a brief reference to her “bi-curiosity,” about which I tried to appear ambivalent. At wrap, we exchanged numbers and agreed to “hang sometime,” which I took to mean “marry,” which is what I spent the following two months preparing for until at last one day she texted. “In town! Drinks?” She’d been out of town shooting a show (hot) and wanted (hot) to get drinks (very hot). We agreed on a dive bar in Silverlake and I ironed my most becoming turtleneck. On the Uber ride there, I had the driver stop at a grocery store so I could load my laundry quarters in the CoinStar. Twenty-two dollars’ worth, a sum I was certain could cover two cheap shot-and-beer combos.
And so I arrived in my tightest jeans and glossiest lip, ready to land the plane.
She was already sat at dark bar and smiled when she saw me.
“Yay, Jen! I was excited you could do this.”
“Me too, I was so relieved I was free.” I was always free. I was free always. I had no job and had just fed my last remaining money to a CoinStar machine at Vons. We ordered a few cocktails and an order of nachos. My plan for a shot-and-beer combo dissolved into ticker tape when she read the sign and remarked “gross, I can’t believe adult people actually order those.” Same, girl! The very thought makes me simply wanna BIFF!
At a certain point into drink number one, a rowdy group of Eagle Rock Rockabillies (for those not familiar with L.A., an Eagle Rock Rockabilly is someone who spends all day working on old cars and can only come to Willie Nelson) had attempted to flirt with us by asking us where we were from, to which I’d tersely croaked “ALASKA.” and turned back to Bebe. It is important to note here that the Eagle Rockabillies (shortening it henceforth for both our sakes) were drinking well beer. Bad beer. Beer that could mimic the smell of, say, urine.
Quick note about that:
I happen to be the proud owner of a zippy little endocrine disorder that makes me, among other things, have to pee very soon after I have the urge. Adult incontinence if we’re being technical. When I feel I have to go, I have to go fast. We’re typically looking at about a three minute window, tops. I have fully pee-peed in my pants, in the sober light of day, at birthday parties, grocery stores, and one unfortunate viewing of the Evita national tour. I mostly have a handle on it and can locate a public bathroom with the speed of an ocelot. Mostly. Have a handle. (Stepson interrupted me here: “Is this why you hate restaurants with only one bathroom?”I nodded solemnly and continued.)
Bebe and I had polished off drink three and as I prayed my three-hundred-dollar-credit- limit MasterCard wouldn’t be declined, Bebe excused herself to go to the bathroom. I loosened the mouth of my turtleneck and shifted my weight, upon which my face froze in fear. The Urge. A big one. Fuck. I clenched as best I could clench and looked toward the bathroom. Bebe was inside the single stall, single bathroom and a line of three people had developed. It was here that I had a crucial choice to make: Walk to the queue and ask to cut, but risk losing control of my bladder while upright, or stay put and continue Kegel-ing to the point of tinnitus. My lip began sweating. I attempted to rise from my barstool and realized immediately that option one was out. I subtly tried to wedge my hand between my legs to provide some sense of pressure; a pee pee damn; a fleeting hope. My entire body was sweating now and I fully clenched my crotch, no longer concerned with etiquette. It is said that the concentration of corticosterone present in mice facing a predator is greater if they have previously experienced defeat. My corticosterone was a lemonade stand. I took one, deep Lamaze breath, my pupils dilated, and then it happened. It was happening. I was going. I was fully peeing, seated on a barstool in skintight jeans with about thirty seconds to make a plan before my crush arrived back and I had to explain being soaked in my own urine. One of the Eagle Rockabillies guffawed at his buddy’s story and suddenly the muse of inspiration alit. I wiped my wet lip and bumped the side of Rockabilly Guy with the side of my own body and feigned shock.
“Shit, man! Your beer! It splashed on me! You splashed me!” I stood, crotch drenched. Rockabilly turned, just drunk enough to buy it, and threw up his hands in apology.
“Ohmygod dude I’m so sorry! Here…” He grabbed a handful of cocktail napkins from the bar and attempted to wipe down the stool.
“NO, nope, I’m okay,” I stammered.
“Oh man, I feel so bad. Can I buy you and your friend a drink to apologize?” Christ.
“No man, don’t worry about it, you’re good.”
He apologized a few more times and I saw Bebe returning. I explained the story with too many little laughs and Bebe seemed unfazed. We finished our final drink and the pee began to cool my pants. Bebe smiled a conspiratorial grin and touched my arm.
“Should we get tacos?” I am covered in piss.
“For sure, I haven’t had a taco in a minute!” Piss piss piss
“Amazing, I’m parked nearby, I actually just got a new car. It has leather seats, I’m so tacky.” Call me Pisshmael.
I waddled to Bebe’s new car and tried to think through the next steps. Leather seats: not ideal but bad beer can smell like urine, surely. Sitting through tacos: time to dry. End game in which my pants come off? Focus on first two steps, reevaluate after. We got chicken tacos from one of my favorite taco trucks in L.A. and sat in the tented patio sipping Topo Chicos. I liked her. She was kind. Self-effacing but confident. Situated comfortably in herself. I cracked a bad joke about pouring Topo Chico on her pants to keep things even and immediately regretted bringing focus to the one thing I was trying to bleach from both our memories. She laughed and poured a tiny bit on her own pants. I told her she looked younger when vulnerable and we both laughed. Was she blushing?
Now two hours post-pee, my pants were beginning to dry and I wondered, as she drove me home, which of us would carry the children. Probably her. I did like the feel of the leather seats and imagined driving us to Ojai for the weekend, blasting Backstreet Boys and sharing a sleeve of Oreos. She slowed the car. We’d arrived.
“This you?”
“This is me.”
She parked, turned to me, and clapped her hands together.
“This was so fun,” Oreos. “You crack me up, I swear to god.” BACKSTREET’S BACK ALRIGHT
I smiled coyly and gave namaste hands. She smiled.
“I really want you to hang with my boyfriend, I told him I have a new best friend I’m obsessed with and I think you guys would totally love each other.” COME AGAIN, SIR?
I blinked and tried to maintain my now completely expired smile.
“Yes, for sure.” Not for sure. NOT FOR SURE. I grabbed my bag and opened the car door.
“Well, you have my number!” I chirped and waddled up to my apartment building.
Our deodorant commercial started airing three months later. It was everywhere: sports bars, taxi cabs, above the ellipticals at my gym. I saw it while working out one day and was reminded of the time my brother Ryan, about three years old at the time, had shuffled into the kitchen for family dinner, having clearly just wet himself.
“This is root beer,” he’d said with a hand on his hip. “It may smell like pee, but it’s root beer.”
By the time I’d finished (a child-friendly version of) my story, Stepson and I had arrived at our subway stop. He grabbed the rest of the lemon loaf, now warm from my grip, shoved it in his mouth and tugged me off the train. We spent the afternoon in a temperature controlled biodome catching butterflies on our fingers and listening to the soothing sounds of a forrest bird soundtrack. At one point, Stepson touched my arm and gently said “if you need to go to the bathroom, just let me know.”
I laughed, I cried, I was fully entertained.