The Choir He Wanted, The LIfe He Had

Saturday, March 11, 1935

I walked down the long hallway, barely even awake. The entire house was pitch black; it was the middle of the night, probably around midnight. I was very tired, and if I hadn't needed to use the bathroom so badly when I woke up, I would have gone back to sleep. I was a little scared to be in the house alone when it was as dark as it was. I had tried to wait in my room, not wanting to go out in the dark, but after a while I felt too uncomfortable to continue waiting.

After what felt like forever, I finally got to the stairs. I stood at the top of the steps, urgently needing to pee but not wanting to go into the darkness downstairs. I knew I had to go down another hallway just to get to the bathroom, and I didn't want to turn the light on in the hallway; I didn't want to risk waking my parents, and when I was that age I believed that even the downstairs light would shine into my parents' bedroom.

I slowly descended the stairs, hating myself for having drunken so much water before I went to bed. I had to be quiet and not make any sounds. Even as I got older I knew that that would wake my parents. No matter how badly I needed a toilet, if I went downstairs in the middle of the night to use the bathroom or even do anything, I went down the stairs slowly and carefully.

When I finally reached the bottom of the stairs, I ran down the hallway to the bathroom, barely reaching the toilet on time. I must have grown considerably, because as I stood on the toilet, my head nearly touched the ceiling. I reached up with my hand and found that I could lay it flat on the ceiling and still have my arm bent.

I lowered my hand but continued to stare up at the ceiling. It was very close to my face, and if I were to raise myself onto the fronts of my feet, I would be able to touch my face against it. I continued to stare at the ceiling even after I had finished peeing. I felt like I was in a trance. It wasn't until I heard someone knock on the door that I was snapped out of it. I shook my head slightly, then looked over my shoulder. I had left the bathroom door open, and I saw my father standing in the doorway, the hallway light shining behind him.

"Looks like you're a little too old for that now," he observed.

"I guess so," I said.

"Finish up in there," my father said. He turned the bathroom light on and it blinded me for a few seconds. When I could see again, I found that he had left. I finished up in the bathroom and turned the light off as I left.

I walked down the hallway, back to the stairs, and I was about to climb them when my father called my name. I turned around and saw my father standing in the kitchen. He beckoned for me to come to him, so I did.

"Tell me when you need a toilet," he said. I was confused.

"Why?" I asked.

"Just do," he replied.

"Okay," I said. My father smiled, then he walked away. I was still confused, and also tired, so I went back upstairs to my room, and was asleep just a few minutes later.

...

I did what my father had told me to do, even though I was still confused as to why he had told me to do it. What I didn't expect was for him to follow me into the bathroom. I also didn't expect what would happen next.

"I want to teach you something," my father said.

"In the bathroom?" I asked.

My father winked.

"Oh," I said. "You mean...?" I looked down at the toilet, then back up at my father. He nodded.

I'd be lying if I told you that what happened next went well.

It was a train wreck.

More urine ended up on the toilet and on the floor than in the toilet. I could tell that my father was annoyed, but he didn't say anything about it. When I had finished, though, he made me clean it up.

I used the bathroom this way several times during the day, and every single time I did I made a mess that I had to clean up. It was so bad that eventually a roll of paper towels was placed in the bathroom for the sole purpose of letting me clean up my own messes.

While I was wiping up one of these "messes," I felt someone touch my shoulder and looked up to see my father standing next to me.

"I can't do it," I whined.

"Of course you can," my father replied. "It just takes some practice."

I sighed and looked back at what I was doing.

"Let me help you," my father said. He got a few paper towels and helped me clean up the urine, then he said, "Go wash your hands. I can do this."

I stopped cleaning and did what he told me to. My father had finished wiping up the urine by the time I was done drying my hands. As he washed his own hands he began talking to me.

"Jack," he said, "If you think I'm mad at you, I'm not. I was a boy once too, just like you. I understand that this is hard, but you just have to keep trying. You can do it, I know you can."

My father finished washing his hands and began drying them.

"I'll never tell your mother about the messes," he said, smiling. "She doesn't need to know. I'm making it sound like you're doing great. Just remember that."

I laughed and my father chuckled. He ruffled my hair and I shied away from him and said, "Stop."

"Come on, you don't like that anymore?" my father said.

"I'm not five anymore, Dad," I replied.

"You just turned seven more than a month ago," he said. "You're practically still six."

"No, I'm not," I whined.

"Then why do you sound like you are?" my father asked. I growled and pushed past him, and as I stormed down the hallway I could hear him laughing.