| Have you ever –in the middle of the night- experienced (like I have) the scream of a herd of cows that haven’t been milked for over twenty-four hours? Those pain-filled guttural reverberations that sound like emanating from a warrior’s prehistoric Celtic buffalo horn, a noise that catches you at your deepest roots, while filling the nocturnal calm for many miles around.
Why am I describing that bovine thud to such an extent?
Because that’s precisely the way I felt the other night. I had spent a happy evening with my son Patrick, during which time we had a few beers too many at Mc.Sorley’s Ale House on 7th Street, just before dinner at our favorite sushi place. There, we finished off the evening with a rather unreasonable amount of Japanese sake rice wine.
Just before leaving, Patrick went to the men’s room, and asked me if I also needed to take a leak. After mentally checking my plumbing system, I decided to pass on the invitation, since there appeared to be no urge whatsoever.
However, that situation changed abruptly the very moment we entered the subway train that was to bring us back to the Upper West Side.
Unfortunately, on top of our slow ride, we had to change trains at 42nd Street. That’s where I found out the hard way that there are no toilets in the subway system.
As we were boarding our Red Line train, at 42nd Street, I tried to remind myself of a stupid mental game my father used to tell me when I was a small child. “When it hurts,” he said, “just think that it is beautiful.” But the very minute that damn idea came to my mind, my urge became even worse.
One single stop before 72nd Street, I wasn’t able to hold water any longer. We rushed out of the train, and while my son gave me cover on the backside, I did it right there, in the middle of a long subway tunnel and with people all around us.
What a relief! What an incredible relief! From now on, I can not only sympathize, but also entirely identify with the serene feeling that a four-legged cow must experience during the process of being milked… |