OCTOBER '04

The Exit Colony
by Spencer Dew

Pissing
by Shane Jones

Something Happened
by Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz

The Apothecary
by Alan Danzis

Well Protected
by Tim Bacon

Usually this isn’t a big deal, but I’m at the urinal between two men and I’m wearing button fly jeans, which I lack experience with. My girlfriend, Cynthia, picked these pants out while visiting her parents, which for me is like placing wooden shims under my fingernails. But the week ended on a bright note because Cynthia wants to take our relationship farther. Now we’re on our way back home across Wisconsin, making our first rest stop. I really need to pee.

There’s no partition separating the urinals, which are roughly ten inches apart. I’m already taking too long, fidgeting with my belt. Who takes their belt off at the urinal? I should have gone toilet. And now it’s too late to back out. They’re looking at me.

Cynthia is outside waiting at a table eating Burger King. We’re going to discuss our future after I take this piss. She’s pregnant. So now there’s this sense of urgency to have a talk. To talk about what our kid is going to look like by pointing out our facial features and morphing them together. We won’t discuss personality or mental stability. Fuck no.

Every pair of jeans I own has a zipper. Why buttons? It’s a fact that nobody likes buttons. Buttons fall off, get lost, choke in your cats’ throat. The only thing that goes wrong with a zipper is that is gets stuck, maybe breaks. But you can fix that. You can’t fix a button you can’t find because your cat shit it out in the liter box.

I bet these guys - truckers sporting yellow mesh hats and ripped Carhart jackets - have zippers. They’re probably wondering what I’m doing taking my belt off. It’s obvious, hearing the clang of the buckle on the porcelain edge. But I have this planned out. I’m going two buttons down. Pop. Pop. Pants unfolded, I go for the opening in the boxers - also a Cynthia purchase and also with a button. Mother fucker.

Seeing her father again was the hardest part of the visit. The first time we met he asked me what my problem was. Later that night Cynthia told me he does that with all her boyfriends. Depending on your answer it reveals what kind of man you are and from that he constructs his opinion of you. My reply: fixing Cynthia’s problems. It was meant to be an icebreaker - something light and funny. But the real problem is Cynthia has more problems than the combined cast of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Her father rolled his neck, rubbed his chin, and smiled with narrowed eyes.

Here’s my problem: My belt is off, I’ve lied to myself and gone three buttons down instead of two, and now I can’t get this fucking boxer button undone which is the size of a raisin. My fingers are too thick to handle it and slide it through the small open slit of cotton. Another option is to pull the elastic waist of my boxers down to my balls and use my other hand to aim my dick. Obviously I’m risking pissing myself.

I’m not surprised she’s pregnant. Our relationship is strictly sexual. I told Cynthia that even though her patch is ninety-eight percent effective we were running a thin line by having sex eight or nine times a day. “Baby, the odds are against us,” I said. “Think about it.”

She placed my hands on her hips. “You’re an idiot. You know that?”

I’m serious. What if you get pregnant?”

Then we’ll worry about that when it happens,” she said, tugging on the belt loops to my jeans. “Now come on.”

I hold down the elastic waist and with my free hand hold my dick. My pants are slipping. The belt buckle keeps tapping the porcelain as I wiggle my hips to keep my pants up. This elastic is stronger than I thought and my thumb hurts. Everything between my stomach and knees is a circus swept up in a tornado. Everything going wrong. Cynthia is pregnant and we have no money and she’s crazy and we don’t love each other and I can barely piss on my own. And to make all this worse, I just caught one of the truckers checking me out and my first instinct was to check him out.

Ziiiipppp...Ziiiipppp. They’re done. I can relax. I’m not gay.

I’m pissing. It’s going smooth. I’m shooting a golden beam into the urinal cake and I have yet to get a drop on myself and my pants are staying up. Me: one. Button fly: zero. Trucker: two inches.

I’ve pissed a kiddie pool. Now I’m ready to talk. During my piss time I realized this: we’re not ready to have a child and I’m not gay. I can barely go the bathroom without stressing out, how can I raise a child? With that, and Cynthia’s brain unraveling, there’s just no way.

Reversing the process is less stressful. Sure, I catch a snag or two on a button, but that just comes with the purchase of a button fly. Best of all, I don’t have to worry about my fly being down when I walk out. Maybe this button fly does have advantages.

Walking back to the table I see Cynthia dipping several french fries into a tiny paper cup of ketchup. She eats them then licks her fingers before looking at me. I sit down.

“You ok? I thought you might have fallen in.”

She has these blue vampire eyes that tell you she’s not alright but she’s all yours. It’s worse when she smiles.

“It’s these pants you bought me,” I say. “The button fly isn’t exactly easy to handle on a first try.”

“Just pants you know. And you could have gone into the stall you little idiot.”

I grab some fries. “It’s more complicated than that.”

She licks ketchup off her bottom lip. “How are jeans complicated?” she says.

“They really aren’t I guess,” I say and shrug.

“Jacob,” she says smiling. “I love Jacob.”