By Michael Riordan
As I wipe my brow, the morning sun burns through the mist.
It’s going to be a hot one. I have my backpack and a chilled bottle of Coke—everything I need for my little road trip. Forget the heat—this is going to be great. I’m in China, and I’m eager to see another part of this intriguing country.
I am a sixty-four-year-old American ex-pat professor, and today, I am traveling with local staff to our sister campus to meet some important colleagues. Everyone on the bus is Chinese except for me. I don’t speak the language, nor do I need to, because I’m here to teach English majors. Unable to even utter hello to the other passengers, I give the seated passengers a big, toothy grin as I board the packed university minibus for the two-hour trip from Shanghai to Jiashan.
Thirty minutes into my trip, my body begins to communicate with me. You see, I have high blood pressure. Thankfully, medical science has come up with pills to help control this problem. One little orange oblong pill I take is commonly called a water pill, and I pop one into my mouth every morning. Water pills are diuretics that have been prescribed for years; they reduce blood pressure by working on the kidneys to cause the excretion of excess water and sodium.
At first, my body mumbles a short remark, more like a statement of fact: Yes, there are many fascinating sights out the window. By the way, it might be interesting if the bus stopped, and perhaps you could buy a pack of gum—and maybe find a restroom.
An hour later, my body is screaming: What the hell are you waiting for? Pee now! Pee now, you foolish old man. If you don’t, your bladder will explode!
I look out the window and spot a sign to Jiashan—only 15 kilometers to go, just minutes away. I need to apply some mental dexterity. Think of something else. Deflect. Affirm: Body, you are good. Body, you are strong. Body, you are in control. Yes, this is all I need to do. After all, I am highly educated and quite disciplined.
I can do this, I tell myself.
Really.
No, I can’t.
Just as the minibus pulls up in front of the main office of the campus administration building, my bladder has had enough. My willpower won’t any longer.
Yes! Yes! Oh, yes! My body squeals in silent ecstasy, as sweet relief begins to fill my pants. This euphoria lasts only for a few seconds because I instantaneously register what has happened.
Bad body! Bad body!
As I glance down at my light gray pants, soppy darkness is now spreading out across my lap like an animated map of The Allied Invasion of Europe. I need to think fast, so I quickly cover the front of my pants with my backpack.
The other passengers are slowly spilling off the minibus. I smile weirdly as people move past me, and some even hesitate or stop to allow me to go ahead of them. I refuse, and gesture to indicate I will go after them. They think I am super-polite, but of course I’m not. I just don’t want to be super-embarrassed and super-humiliated. Suddenly, it occurs to me that I am also representing my country now. I cannot let them discover the truth. It’s no longer just about me. What will these people think of America if they conclude that I’m just an old capitalist who wets his pants?
Looking down at my nearly full bottle of Coke, an idea springs to mind. I unscrew the bottle top and begin pouring the Coke all over my pants, dousing myself as if I were on fire. I have no time to consider how pathetic I have become. Once the other passengers are off the bus, I stand and start clamoring and making sweeping gestures to the bus driver, indicating my spilled Coke. Clumsy me. Look what I’ve done. Shucks.
I finally hop off the minibus, a stinking, shameful mess.
I scurry away from campus. Avoiding eye contact, I raise one hand and wave towards the uniformed guys at the security gate and head down an unfamiliar street, clueless as to where I’m going. As I’m walking, I hear this revolting rhythmic sloshing coming from my crotch. I sound like a washing machine set to the “delicates” cycle. I pick up my pace. I don’t care about how many department heads and big shots are expecting me back at the university. The late-morning sun is beating down on me and my disgusting pants. I walk about twenty minutes, past fishmongers, little hardware stores, and assorted eateries. Finally, I spot a kind of department store, and think my pants are dry enough for me to enter. I only hope I smell more like cola.
I locate what appears to be the menswear section, and I pull something off the rack. I dart into a restroom and reappear wearing my new brownish-green duds, having shoved my soiled pants deep into a white wastebin. A store janitor will find my pants later and assess their value. I wish I knew Mandarin so I could leave a note warning him: “Not worth it, man.”
The pants I buy are cheap looking and ugly, but they’ll do. I am headed back to campus, feeling rather clever and proud of myself. I begin to take in the sites of Jiashan, an ancient town in Zhejiang Province. I think about how this area has been known for thousands of years as The Land of Fish and Rice. Famous for being the birthplace of thirteenth-century painter and poet Wu Zhen, Jiashan has some buildings that retain the classical style of the Ming Dynasty. Tom Cruise filmed a few sequences here for one of his Mission Impossible movies. Interestingly, it was later in the fifteenth century when—
—Uh-oh….
Michael Riordan lives in Arlington, Texas, and has taught in the U.S., Australia, Singapore, and China, where he was a professor of writing and film. He won first prize for nonfiction in 2020 Ageless Authors and third prize in 2022’s LIGHT story contest. His work can be found in Short Edition, Consequence, Whimsical Poet, Spirituality & Health, The Smart Set, and elsewhere.