Dead Dogs Don't Roll Over
Written by: Alex Sandell

Chapter 19
I'm All Wet (At Least in my Pants)

After a rather large struggle with its zipper, I crawl out of my locker-room bag. I run to the bathroom and throw myself into a stall. I unzip my pants and sigh at the luxury of finally being allowed to relieve myself.

I stand above the toilet with a whopping grin on my face. I feel like a big dork, but I just can't wipe off my wacky smile. After standing over the toilet for about three minutes, I notice that I don't have to pee. It's my turn to feel like a confused orangutan searching for bananas.

This just isn't normal. Moments ago, I had to urinate with urgency unsurpassed since I was ten years old and guzzled a whole gallon of water to impress my five-year-old cousin. Now, I can't even tinkle.

I begin getting paranoid. Did that locker room guy with the flames in his mouth steal all of my urine? Why would they need urine in the afterlife? Maybe to put out the flames in his mouth. I huff and puff a few times, sounding like a worried mother, and leave the stall.

I begin pressing the pop-up sink handles and start washing the grime off of my hands. It's during the hand-washing ordeal that I notice the warmth in my pants. A shaky hand goes down below my waist and I notice that my pants are soaking wet. This is too much; I'm closing in on my mid-twenties, and I just wet my pants. The only pants I have to wear thee entire day!

I begin sweating profusely, more so than when I met the flaming throat guy from the "Otherworld." Life is just getting to be too much for me. Meeting some ghost dude with flaming tonsils still doesn’t match the embarrassment of wetting your pants.

All I wanted was to get famous, maybe in interview on a late-night talk show, with a dry pair of pants and a laughing Jay Leno. What I've ended up getting was a dead dog, a spirit with a flaming throat, a wet pair of pants, an asshole manager named Richard and a locker room bag that leads straight into limbo.

I rush to the bag and run a hand through it, making sure that I didn't miss an extra pair of pants when I was inside. With no luck, I get more stressed out than ever. What am I going to do? I can't go onto the work floor with a sopping wet pair of pants, and it has already been 14 minutes since my encounter with Richard. Anyway that you look at it, I'm screwed.

I come to terms with the fact that I definitely need a new pair of slacks. I also realize that I'm going to have to stand in front of some wardrobe girls, with my freshly squeezed urine. Since I would like to avoid them knowing that I wet my trousers, I'm going to have to come up with an excuse. I decide that the only "logical" explanation will be to claim that the pop-up sink malfunctioned and sprayed water all over my most private of parts.

I take off my change apron, turn the sink back on and try to splash an excess amount of water on my pants, to cover up the sight, and scent, of urine. I cup a palm full of water at a time and splash it onto my pants. Realizing that the hand to crotch method will take far too long, and that I don't have much time, I start trying to balance myself upon the sink. I smoosh my head against the mirror and contort my back in a way that will surely give me cramps for the rest of my life. I then push my hand onto the "cold" button and let freezing water run from my waist to my ankles.

A Bingo manager walks into the room as I am spraying myself. After what I've been put through today, I don't even mind being discovered. "Hi," I say, without a single qualm in my voice. The dealer looks at me, as though he's staring at a rabid dog (maybe even a dead one), and responds with a frightened "hello." I am shocked to find myself smile at his fear, as I walk from the restroom, strutting proudly with fouled water running down from my leg.

I walk toward my locker bag, while trying to get a good whiff of my pants. If the wardrobe ladies know that I've peed in them, I'll be one humiliated change man, even with my newly acquired, delusional sense of pride.

I swing open the locker room door, walk up to the wardrobe counter and get an evil stare from a lady who looks as though she would prefer doing anything over helping some guy find a pair of dry pants. "Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeesssssss???" She asks. I roll my eyes. Can’t I have a single thing work out nicely today?

Go to: Chapter 20

1997 Alex Sandell but, if you're a book publisher and, you wanna get this puppy out, please get in touch with me, hand me a nice, big contract and, of course, a 12 pack of Grape Soda and maybe we can do lunch.

You know the routine, just click it.

Get your own free homepage at: geocities.