It must have been a Friday evening. That’s one of the role paying nights at Casa de Bell. And on Friday it’s my wife’s turn to choose. Surprisingly, that night she didn’t opt for the usual: she in my easy chair watching “What Not to Wear” and me in a teddy vacuuming the entire house until “Mistress Kim” deems it clean.
That night, that awful night, Kim decided to spice it up a bit. She was to play the role of naughty Iraqi insurgent. I was to be the Marine Sergeant out on patrol with his whipped cream-dispensing M16 and chocolate syrup “truth serum” for interrogation.
My outfit—camouflage utilities, spit-shined boots and helmet—was laid out on the bed. The “enemy” was in hiding. According to the note, I was to get dressed, round up the “insurgent,” and give “him” a good spanking… wait, make that “her.” It was Friday--my wife’s turn to choose.
Pausing as I finished dressing, I sneaked a peak at myself in the mirror. It was only a glance to see if the un-tucked camouflage blouse (that’s what we called it in Marine Corps boot camp) hid my pot belly. Unfortunately a glimpse of myself in camouflage was all it took to bring back long-repressed memories.
Though the details are still a little sketchy, I remember grabbing the Listerine from the counter and hurling it through the bathroom window. Before my wife could scurry out from hiding I trashed every plastic cup, pitcher and piece of Tupperware in our cupboards.
I was on a mission. There was no stopping me. As Kim frantically dialed 911, I raced to the bathroom. From the time I saw myself in the mirror I had felt a searing pain in my bladder—it was near the bursting point. I raced to the toilet, assumed a seated position and then all went dark.
I remember nightmares. I was back in boot camp. There was yelling, push ups and “head calls” (controlled trips to the bathroom) few and far apart. As I dreamed, there was the constant fear that permission for a head call would not be granted in time to avoid the yellowing of my military-issued skivvies. I was filled with dread. I had to wake up.
When I finally forced my eyes open I was relieved to see that I wasn’t back in those boot camp barracks. But where was I? The room had that sickening sterility of a hospital. But if that was the case, why were there bars on the window?
I tried to raise myself up but found that I had been strapped to the bed. As the room came better into focus I found that I was not alone. There were two unfamiliar women, a man with a stethoscope and my wife.
Momentarily I thought my ultimate role playing fantasy was being played out—my wife, two nurses and a 68-year-old man with a receding hairline. But the doctor spoke, and I quickly realized this was no fantasy.
“Rick,” he implored, “Tell me about ‘sitzpinkler’.”
CONCLUSION TO BE APPENDED TOMORROW AT 8AM...
“Sitzpinkler.” That was a word I hadn’t thought of in years. The “safe” word given to me by Dr. Klaus Troeber following my stint in Marine Corps boot camp. The word I used to chant to take my mind off traumatic bladder-related memories. (Little did I know that sitzpinkler is German slang for ‘wimp”—more literally, it translates to “man who sits when he tinkles.”) It was what I vaguely recall muttering when I slipped into the darkness before I was brought to this room.
I needed that safe word for years. You see, discipline in the Marine Corps was more about controlling when you could tinkle than anything else. Sure there was the physical abuse, the yelling and the name calling… I could handle that. I had grown up with two deranged older brothers after all. But what I couldn’t handle was being told when I could and couldn’t shake the dew off my morning lily. Topping the list of boot camp nightmares was a June evening when the head (bathroom) was secured (secured).
During one of our nightly hygiene inspections two jar-heads-in-the-making made each other laugh… loudly... right in the face of a visiting captain. Our drill instructors were none too pleased.
The two Marines were punished severely, but to drive home the “live together, die together” philosophy of the Marine Corp we were all punished that night. No one was allowed to use the restroom until morning.
Normally, that wouldn’t be a challenge. My prostate was not yet the size of a small grapefruit that it is today. Nightly head calls were not in my routine. But the second we were told we couldn’t go to the bathroom, relieving my bladder was all I could think about.
Lights went out at 10:00. As the seconds slowly ticked to midnight, the searing pain in my bladder intensified. I couldn’t take the agony any longer. I had to go. Unfortunately, the two Marines on guard duty that night weren’t about to disobey a direct order. A bathroom, in the traditional sense, was not an option.
Fortunately, I’m a guy. There’s always an alternative. Then it hit me. I had a plastic canteen that was required to be worn when we went running. It was half empty. I rarely used it. This was San Diego. It never got hot. I could make do until the end of boot camp without partaking of that canteen.
Relief. The canteen was returned to a state of fullness. I slept well.
The next morning, our drill instructors had a little surprise for us. We were to pack immediately for a two week trip up the coast to Camp Pendleton. That poor little canteen did not make the trip. It sat there in San Diego and fermented.
Upon our return, I knew a little housekeeping was in order. I took my canteen to a bathroom sink and emptied the contents. The Devil Dogs around me recoiled in horror. The stench was over powering. Kind of an “I-forgot-a-carton-of-yogurt-in-the back-of-my-car-for-a-month-and-then-threw-it-into-a-filthy-highway-reststop-bathroom-where-it-exploded-with-a-flourish” kind of smell. Wee wee doesn’t age like a fine wine.
I had to do something about the odor. That’s when the Listerine brainstorm hit. I had procured a small bottle of that antiseptic mouthwash at the base store a few weeks back. Since I had few occasions to make out with my fellow leathernecks, the bottle was still full. I emptied the contents into my canteen, filled it with water and let it sit for a few days.
Funny thing about the military. Everything we were issued came from some contractor that managed to submit the lowest bid. That canteen was no exception.
I’m no chemist, but there is definitely a positive correlation between the cheapness of a given plastic and the capacity of that plastic to absorb odors. As time would tell, this canteen couldn’t have been made with any cheaper plastic.
When I rinsed it out a few days later the smell, not surprisingly, was less than pleasant. The Listerine did not kill the smell of urine. The port-a-potty bouquet was intensified and enhanced with Listerine’s medicinal aroma. But what did I care? I filled that canteen with water confident that I could gut it out and not take a sip for the remainder of boot camp.
Did you know that when the temperature is above 90 degrees Marine recruits are legally mandated to drink water when participating in physical activities? That little tidbit wasn’t flagged on my recruiting paperwork. San Diego rarely breaks 90 degrees. But in the summer of ’82 it did one time. And once was enough.
We ran hard that August afternoon. I worked up a good sweat. When we stopped for a break my fellow recruits gulped thirstily from their canteens. I fiddled with mine. I was thirsty, but not stupid.
Then a command was issued: “You will drink all of your water!”
“Sir, yes, Sir!” we shouted in unison.
I fiddled some more.
The command was reinforced: “You will drink all of your water and hold your canteen upside down over your head to show me it is empty!”
“Sir, yes, Sir!” we shouted again.
I debated. Could I explain my predicament to my drill instructor? Yeah, that would work. Nobody embodies kindness and compassion like a Marine Corps drill instructor. I had a decision to make: drink or be publicly humiliated. I drank. I drank that 90 degree, “flavored” water and tried to escape to a happier place. My mind wanted to leave. But the taste of Listerine and stale urine kept me firmly planted in San Diego.
A few weeks later I was in the care of Dr. Troeber. Years of counseling and mild electroshock therapy undid the damage. That was, until the night my wife wanted me to role play.
4. Why aren’t people possessed with devils anymore? Or is that Donald Trump's deal?