He No Pisso

by Matt Walker

We’re in Madrid. We spent the afternoon leaning out our hostel window, staring at the prostitutes on the corner five stories below. We must have remained hanging there for some time. We began naming the prostitutes, cataloging them and picking favorites. We watched them disappear with men down narrow allies, and reappear once again, alone and ready. We all wanted to talk to one, just to play with the idea of what was probably the dirtiest thing a nineteen-year-old-boy could do. Logan and Ben left to go buy 40 oz. bottles of San Miguel, Zack took a shower, and I leaned, head fixed, with the afternoon sun on my shoulders.

By nightfall we were ready to begin our drunken American parade down main streets we’ve never heard of, in front of people we aimed to impress with our non-Spanishiness. But it was Tuesday, and Spain had already retired for the evening. The four of us, nevertheless, still managed to find a nice strip of bars and discotheques. As we were walking, a small, dark man approached us on the sidewalk and handed us pieces of paper that read

One Free Shot at La Fiesta! 

or some other cliché Spanish bar name. We couldn’t believe it. We followed the man into the empty bar, where the sound pressure seemed to express the manager’s sentiments about the Tuesday night turn out.  We handed the bored bartender our slips of paper, and, lo and behold, a shot! Since we were already drunk, having over slept and been under-fed that day, we had no desire to actually buy another drink, as the marketing technique would have projected. We exited the empty bar feeling a tinge of guilt, thinking to ourselves, “Hope thing’s pick up, guys!” 

Back on the empty sidewalk, another man of roughly the same stature as the first one approached us and offered us the same deal. We promptly filed into his empty bar, and presented our free-shot documentation.  This process occurred approximately five more times before I realized that Tuesday night’s were on Spain’s tab, and that I had to piss like I have never had to piss before.

As the minutes passed, my agenda of fun transformed into “Piss now, somewhere, before you pee your pants.” As I searched frantically for a dirty ally, a dumpster, an alcove, a big truck, a playground set, my time was running dangerously low. I felt that soon, the brain signals I was sending to my bladder and abdominal region to simply “hold on” would be overpowered with a Niagara Falls-like force. There was nothing in sight except for the glow of an entrance to an underground parking garage about a block away.

“Wait!” I thought, “I have to pee, it’s 1:30 am, I am in Spain, and there is a parking garage about a block away.” This inference led me to the purely logical conclusion that I must piss in the parking garage. In a near sprint, I slurred some signals to my motley crew of Americans that I would be heading to the garage to relieve myself. As I entered the mouth of the yellow glowing concrete beast, I scurried around the curve of the wall where no one could see. In my inebriated state, the solitude nevertheless gave me comfort. As I unzipped my jeans and assumed the stance to release the mounting pressure in my abdomen, I looked up, and there it was, 7 feet in the air and 5 feet in front of me, violating the space I had made mine.: a security camera. Security cameras, I decided, deliver security footage. To what? To a small black and white television. In American movies, those televisions are usually watched by sleepy, overweight security guards. But, I was in Spain, and there was an overweight Spanish security guard barreling toward me as I fastened my pants.

I turned and ran, ran like drunk lightening, with mad, mad Spanish words at my back. I still hadn’t peed. I stopped to turn around and explain. Bad idea. The heavy guard, with all his musk and hair and moisture grabbed my wrist and berated my in a language I finally desired to know. My friends overheard the noise and came to my aide at the mouth of the garage. Logan had taken three years of high school Spanish, but managed only, “Him, no pisso.”  The guard threatened, in broken English, to call the police, and it became clear that he was not going to release me from his grip until the situation was resolved. In some miraculous feet of verbal and non-verbal communication, we explained to the guard that I hadn’t actually peed, that I had taken the initial steps, but saw the camera and ran away. He understood us, but didn’t believe us. Finally, after minutes of broken lines of pleading explanation, I gestured to the guard that I would show him where I no pisso. We eventually came to the agreement that we would walk to the site, and, if there was pee, we all would clean it up, and, if there was no pee, we were free to go.

There we were at the top of the street, four drunk American boys and one large, hairy, sweaty Spanish security guard. Bathed in yellow light, the five of us turned to descend into the beast to see where I didn’t pee. When we reached the spot, around the curve of the wall, we gathered around in a reverent semi-circle before the security camera. It was dry. The guard relinquished his grip around my wrist, and announced. “Go, Go!” gesturing his hands as if he were freeing wild animals from captivity. Hurrying backward up the street, we ran and stubmled together into the night yelling, “Muchas Gracias!”