There's a Boston expression that goes like this, "Wicked pissah, dude!"It has nothing to do with actual urination or any sort of bowel movement, evil or not. Rather, it's something you say when you like something. Perhaps a friend's shirt is "wicked pissah." One's mode of transportation, a movie or an extra-large burrito can all qualify. Papi hitting a homah ovah da Monstah is always "wicked pissah." Whatever you determine to be "wicked pissah," it's always a good thing—a moment for celebration and camaraderie among friends.
It is important to note the pronunciation. Although the phrase is, literally, "wicked pisser," you can't just go around saying it that way. The harsh R sound at the end is dropped and replaced with an elongated, breathy "ahhhh" sound. It's not unlike the involuntary noise you make after sipping a much-needed, cold drink on a hot day. I like it. It makes the phrase sound satisyfying.
"Wicked pissahhhh."
While I've known about the phrase for a while (being from New England and all), I had no idea that there were also wicked pissers in Boston until this past week. Standing apart from the jolly, colloquial expression, wicked pissers are most certainly not "wicked pissah."
There is a certain unwritten and unspoken etiquette when it comes to the men's restroom. Guys, you already know what I'm talking about. Girls, in case you haven't been filled in, the major rules are, as follows:
- Do not make eye contact.
- Do not look down.
- Do not smile.
- Do not say a stall is disgusting. Quietly back out and move to another one.
- When waiting in line, keep your hands in plain view.
- Above all, never use a urinal directly next to another urinal that's currently in use unless all other empty spaces are taken.
So it was a dark, dark night when I found myself in violation this week.
I went to see the Kings of Leon at the Orpheum Theater this past Thursday. On the way to our seats, I decided to take a pre-show leak (no sense in getting up during a set, right?).
The Orpheum's bathrooms are old, just like the building. I'm not sure how old, but it had to built during an era where the man's average height was 4'6" and shoes came with brass buckles. Like all old rooms, it was small. The toilet fixtures had, thankfully, been updated. But due to a lack of space constraints, they were crammed tightly together.
When I say tight, I mean to say there were four urinals in a section of wall that was five feet across. When the Orpheum's owners redid the restrooms, they found the slimmest models on the market. Then, they positioned them shoulder to porcelain shoulder along the wall. It looked like john paneling—there wasn't so much as a crack in between each urinal.
When I got into the bathroom, there was a guy on either end of the row of four. They had done their duty and chosen the urinals furthest from each other. No matter that there was only two feet (and two urinals) separating them. They'd made the correct call.
It was my turn to chose. I had the option of picking the left-center or right-center one. I always favor the right-hand sides of things, mostly due to some slight form of OCD I've nurtured over the past 25 years, so I picked that side.
It wasn't until I'd gotten right up to the urinal that I realized just how close I was to my new neighbor. I could smell his cologne. I could feel his itchy sweater. His stubble of a beard was prickly. It was like we were crossing swords in the same toilet. We may have well been sharing pants, too. My right side completely pushed up against his left. I tried maneuvering myself to come at the urinal at an angle that minimized any contact but also shielded my unmentionables from sight, in accordance with common decorum, but it was no use. We stood shoulder to shoulder, both of us shifting weight in opposite directions and making every effort to appear nonchalant and unaware of any sort of inconvenience.
Just as I'd unbuckled my belt and opened my fly, the gentleman at the far, left-hand station zipped his and backed away. Now, not only were my compadre and I rubbing elbows (and no more, thanks to some nifty side-lean work), but we were the only two at the row of urinals.
And I couldn't go. The pressure of the situation was too great. All I wanted to do was to quickly fasten my pants and get the heck out of there, but I knew I couldn't do that. For if there's another, greater rule of the restroom than the ones I haven't listed—one that trumps all others—it's to act tougher than you actually are at all times. Soap must be applied violently. Noisy bodily functions are not to be giggled at. Hands should be slapped on pants and not just wiped. You get the point. And in this situation, a tough man had to tough it out. I couldn't back down from this pissing contest.
So, I stood there. Right arm abutting my neighbor, hand on the hose, and I waited. And I waited. And I waited some more. There was a drip. Then nothing but a white flag. But still I stood, weight shifted to the left, staring straight ahead and pretending like everything was fine. In my head, I made trickling noises.
Finally, my neighbor left. I waited an obligatory eight seconds, then left, too. I washed my hands, keeping up the having peed illusion, then left the bathroom and the wicked pissers behind as quickly as I could.
Definitely not "wicked pissah."
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