I Did NOT Wet My Pants!

Deke's Note: Every once in a while, something humorous happens upon my travels. The trick is to recognize it. After years of driving a bus, I've become a bit jaded. Perhaps this is why I often overlook that which formerly-inspired the creative humor within. Often, it's self-deprecating, something I don't always pass along. This one however, I just couldn't let go without sharing.

Every Friday, I enjoy a pre-shift meal at Subway. Always a salad, given this Keto diet I've been on for a year. Ordering it as I roll downtown on a Line 17, it's ready-to-devour when I arrive, thanks to the wonderful food slaves who toil there for minimum wage eight-to-12 hours a day. Perhaps theirs is but one, two or three jobs they work just to pay their bills. I always try to leave a 20% tip in appreciation for their efforts. The sooner I can eat, the more I can enjoy a few minutes of peace before rolling into the final shift of a 56-hour week.

On this day, I sat in my usual two-seat booth facing 6th Avenue. Unlike my transit-savvy passengers, I failed to observe my chosen seat prior to sitting upon it. Unfortunately, someone had failed to wipe up the puddle of water awaiting my unsuspecting derrierre. As I sat, my bottom was immediately assaulted by... damp. My first thought was "oh damn, I hope that's not piss."

Bus operators are often left the unwanted urine of drunks on our buses. Either I clean it with disinfectant wipes or wait for a replacement vehicle. More times than not, I'll wipe up a mess rather than expect my Maintenance brothers and sisters to do so. I have gloves too. They're already assailed by many bio-hazards without having to endure more. There are Extra Service Operators ready to swap out my vehicle, but they may be otherwise-engaged. I'm not afraid of a piddly puddle here and there. Gloves and disinfectant can protect me, save my fellows and keep my bus on schedule. Puke? Fuck it, I'm waiting for a different bus.

Wiping up the water with napkins provided by sympathetic Subway Artists, I surmised the puddle wasn't pee-related. Sitting down again, my butt hairs were a bit soggy, but it didn't matter: I was famished. Eating my pre-trip meal while monitoring blog stats, comments, FaceBook and Instagram feeds, I munched my Italian salad in relative peace. All was as it should be.

As I duck-walked out of the restaurant that early afternoon, I felt the wetness confronting anyone who witnessed my posterior. Not embarrassed by something I wasn't responsible for, I just shrugged and continued upon my short walk around the corner to the relief point. As I stepped onto the bus on 5th Avenue which was to serve as my semi-prison for the next 10 hours, I turned my back to the passengers. Pulling my coat off and hanging it, placing my backpack upon its awaiting hook and climbing into the seat for my final week's run, I set about logging into the CAD.

"Did you wet your pants?" a female voice asked from behind my behind. Her voice hinted disgust.


Of course, I was embarrassed. How could I not be? Many of us face the reality of short breaks and miles of non-existent facilities for personal relief. Still, knowing I had not done as accused, all I could offer was an off-the-cuff remark, which came immediately without knowledge or the ability to control.

"No," I replied, "someone else did. I'm just wearing them."

We're often humiliated, assaulted verbally and physically, but this time I won the ongoing battle. With just a bit of Coomer Humor. Thanks, Dad.