It's a dark and stormy night. O.K., not stormy,
but it's raining at least, and it's 9:00
— almost dark and stormy.
Hillary and I went to a great movie, and I know she liked my cologne.
So what if my mom said she could smell me even when she was in the
kitchen and I was in the bathroom? We're all alone in the back seat
of my car even though my papa's driving. I had my arm around her
for the whole movie, and I know she was playing hard to get 'cuz
she kept on moving away and we didn't kiss for the whole movie.
This is perfect. It's dark and she's playing hard to get and she's
— not just beautiful, but gorgeous like nature and seafood
and video games all mixed together. Gorgeous. Luscious and voluptuous
and all mine, but oh my God
I have to pee. It would be perfect if I didn't
have to pee. This is bad, real bad. I drank all of our large Coke
because she didn't want any. Real hard to get. The movie was great.
It's about computer hacker guys, and if I don't pee in a few seconds,
I'll wet my pants, I swear I will. I sat by her the whole movie
through and didn't leave even though I had to pee so bad I could
taste it, like my papa says. He says if we're on a trip
— and it's
a long one, like five hundred miles
— and I have to pee, he says
tie a knot in it he says. And when I remembered him saying that,
I almost laughed, but if I had laughed I would have wet my pants,
so I held it in, which made me have to pee even more. And she's
beautiful, and she wants me, and I have to pee so bad. I have to
pee so bad I'm starting to sweat. I'm holding her hand, and it's
sweaty. That means she likes me, right? I mean, my hand is sweaty,
too, and if our hands are sweaty together, then we're in love, right?
Maybe she doesn't know that I like her and she's scared to kiss
— but my hand is sweaty, so I think she knows. The movie was good.
The ending was only O.K. and I have to pee, but she's playing hard
We're almost to her house now, and these potholes
are going to shake the pee out of me, I know it. But I'm not moving
so she doesn't' think I don't like her. And I'm sweating. There's
a drip of sweat trickling and tickling down the side of my face
next to my eye, on the side she can't see. It itches. I won't wipe
it away because then she'll think I don't like her or I'm immature
or something. She's playing hard to get, and I'm going to kiss her
even though I'm sweating like a pig and I have to pee worse than
I've ever had to in my life. Oh God this is bad. She's so beautiful,
and now we're stopping in front of her house. Our sweaty hands are
peeling apart, and I have to pee, but I'm going to kiss her. And
now she's going out of the car, and her mom's in the doorway and
she probably sees how sweaty I am. She probably knows I have to
pee because I'm so pale and sweaty. She's probably going to laugh
when I leave and say why didn't I tie a knot in it, ha ha and that's
— but it shouldn't be. Now Hillary is waving good-bye and her
mom is smiling
— and laughing inside, I know it
— and now my papa
says do I want to get in the front seat and I want to laugh and
cry and find a gas station because Hillary lives in Saint Paul and
I live in Minneapolis. And we won't talk on the phone tonight because
I have to pee and go to bed and she's beautiful.
Benjamin Gidmark was a student of psychology and Latin American language and literature during his time at Boston University. Later, he worked as a registered nurse in the field of adolescent psychiatry, and was known to those in his life as a musician, a poet, and a friend. In 2011, he passed away peacefully of complications due to a heart condition.
to Issue 1, 1999