Another Wet One

This is it. Promise. I think.

My ludicrous story about peeing in the tub stirred up a bunch of wet and wild memories that, for better or worse, I shared with you.

But there was one I forgot about. Until recently.

One of the reasons I bitch and moan about getting laid off from my fifteen-year gig at a marketing agency is because I loved my job. At least before getting stuck with a troll of a creative director who couldn’t direct her way out of a UPS box.

Before things went pear-shaped, I had a friggin’ blast because I became tight with a core group of like-minded, cray-cray co-workers who, like me, were up for anything. And I was the ringleader.

We had some fun, y’all!

I fondly recall picnic lunches in a nearby forest preserve. Especially during the golden days of Autumn when the molten sun warmed our skin and the leaves crunched under our feet.

We’d play bocce ball and “Fuck, Marry or Kill.”

For our picnic fare, my buds and I would stop for takeout and often, spirits because what’s a “working lunch” without spirits?

And hey, former company, I don’t care if you see this because you’re never going to take me back, anyway, so screw you!

Those were some good times. My co-workers and I also hung out after hours at a place we used to call “The Dump in the Woods.” It was very much like a Wisconsin-style roadhouse. They featured live music a couple of times a week and also had a great outdoor patio with a second bar.

On a few occasions, I was part of the “live music.” One of my best friends at the company and I started a band at work. And here’s where the “wet” comes in. You might want a trench coat for this, people.

The band started as a goof. A Halloween stunt. We had an onsite costume party and three of my compadres and I decided to go as the Spawn of the Mamas and the Papas. I was the lead singer. I’d finally fulfilled my Joan Jett fantasy.

If you’re too young to know who they are, the Mamas and the Papas were a hot sixties singing group with gorgeous harmonies and nearly as much internal drama as Fleetwood Mac.

Their biggest hits include “California Dreamin,’” “Monday, Monday,” — oh hell, Google them!

So that we could look as authentic as possible, one of our group hand-made voluminous, full-length caftans for us to wear, much like the group did in their appearance at The Monterey Pop Festival in 1967.

One of the group, our friend Bill, who was an accomplished musician as well as being smart and funny, was battling Parkinson’s Disease. He was in his fifties at the time and had been diagnosed when he was in his twenties. He knew he was going downhill, as did we, but we kept up pretenses and did our best to pretend that we didn’t see when he stumbled, or dropped things or had trouble finding the right words.

Bill handled his health issues with grace and dignity and was a total blast to be around.

He was tall, with a beard and salt and pepper hair, much like Papa John Phillips.

My friend who made the caftans also procured a wool hat for Bill, much like Phillips wore during performances.

It was dress-up time. We all climbed into our caftans, Bill popped his hat on and I lost it.

As usual, I had to go to the bathroom and also, as usual, I had been holding back for way too long.

When we looked at Bill, so dead-on in his Papa John impersonation, we all cracked up. It was one of those moments you never forget. And my peeing myself, once again, made it particularly memorable.

You see, I’d gone past the point of no return. As we doubled over in hysterics, I was rooted to the spot, afraid to move because of the inevitable downpour. You think I’d learn.

My knees clenched together, I decide to make a break for it. I wobbled off like a shot and made it to the john…too late. I’d already done a good part of the deed. Luckily, I was dressed underneath my caftan so that at least, remained unsullied. Unlike my reputation!

Nah. I don’t think the others knew, but then again, who knows? It’s not like someone was going to helpfully point out, “Hey, Sherry. I see you pissed yourself. Want a wet wipe?”

Oh, yeah. Good times.

Because of the progression of the disease, our wonderful friend, Bill eventually had to leave work and enter a facility. We visited him a couple of times but I feel bad that we didn’t go more often.

I don’t know how he’s doing today. Maybe I’ll make the effort and find out. I’d like him to know that —

“Hey, baby. That pee was for you.”

Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. Her work has appeared in The Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times, and numerous other publications. Sherry’s manager is currently pitching her newest screenplay, a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story.

Sorry for the TMI but hey, pee happens. Thanks for reading. If you’re up for more:

And please check out the other great writers in my pub, Rogues’ Gallery. Thank you!