American Dreams

Room with a Bath - Part 2 of 2

by Rudolph James

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NEW ORLEANS - The next morning I went to work. I called the hotel from the restaurant to discover I had been right. They had already rented my old room, but they were willing to move the new person if I wanted to come back on Monday. I trusted them. Those are good people up there on dead-end row. They said they would hold my room for me until Monday, the day before Mardi Gras. That meant I would only have to stay on N. Rampart Street one more night. I knew I could make it. Tomorrow, I thought, I'll grab my bag and be out of there. I won't even see Sammy. I won't need to. He's already taught me everything he knows about domestic living.

After work that next day, I went out to celebrate my escape from Rampart St. I found a different bar a block over from my room on Dauphine St. A couple from the Bronx had just bought the place. The owner's name was Sammy, too. His wife's name was Sunshine. They, too, like the other Sammy, were trying to change the reputation of their building. Great. The movers and shakers of the world.

"We're gonnah clean this place up," this Sammy told me. "We're gonnah make it a nice place. We're gonnah get nice people in here. Ain't that right, honey?"

Sunshine was beaming. A fixed, perfect white smile outlined in red, holding up two artificially blushed cheeks and nicely framed by blown out, bleached blonde hair. Dark brown eyes colored with blue and black staring at me and wondering why I didn't return the smile. I thought, If she had balls she would fit right in with the drag queens they are trying to get rid of.

I sat there and talked with them for a while. I told them how useless it was to move to a city like New Orleans and try to change anything. Leave the drag queens alone. Stop trying to change dead-end florp houses in to art studios. Let the Saints keep on losing. What's wrong with the way things are?

I babbled on until I realized I'd spent a substantial part of a week's rent on beer. I didn't care. I was slipping out in the morning.

I said good-night to Sammy and Sunshine and went back to my room. I put the little hook in the eye to secure the door, got undressed and crashed.

---

I came to, I guess, in the middle of the night. There was no clock in that room. I never use a watch. I looked through the cracks in the boarded-up windows. It was still dark outside. I looked down at myself. A piss hard-on. A huge one. I had to pee. There was no bathroom in the room. I would have to go down the hall. I would have to get dressed first.

I couldn't find my clothes. I'm walking around the room holding myself by this time. I can't walk out into the hall holding my cock. That old lady might be out there in her robe. She might reach out and touch me again. I'll piss all over her. I'll let loose somewhere.

There was carpet on the floor. I couldn't pee there. My cock was starting to leak. Shooting out spurts. I grabbed the empty Kentwood water container off the dresser and flipped off the cap. How stupid can I be! That's what Sammy left it there for.

I bent my cock down as far as it would bend without breaking and let loose in the container. Whew! Someone once told me this was better than getting laid. He must have been full of piss. I was peeing in an empty container. I don't have a care in the world. The gallon container was almost full. Near the top. I think I'm almost finished. The gallon container was overflowing. Piss on my hands. Piss on the floor. I put the container back on the dresser top. I remembered seeing some more of them around somewhere. I couldn't go peeing all over the room looking for them. I saw a waste basket on the floor. I swung to the right, pissed across the dresser aiming for the basket. The sound of piss hitting tin. Followed by the sound of piss hitting piss. Will I ever stop peeing? The last couple of drops. The last couple of shakes. Don't shake it more than twice. You know what they say. Go back to bed. Go back to sleep.

---

The next morning, a Monday morning, someone was banging at the door.

"Who is it?" I called.

"It's me. Sammy. You got some money for me?"

"Yeah," I said. "Hold on. I'm getting dressed."

I said that just to stall him. He'd made a surprise attack. He wasn't supposed to come back until that night. He'd done this job before. Never underestimate anyone. I found my clothes and put them on. They were right where I'd left them.

"What time is it?" I called to the door.

"It's eight thirty," he yelled back.

Good. I wasn't late for work.

"Okay. I'm getting dressed. Hold on."

The memory of the piss marathon came to mind. I looked over at the dresser. There was a gallon of pee sitting there. I saw the cap container cap lying on the floor, picked it up and snapped it back on. I put the container in the fridge. It was the first time I looked in there. It was immaculate. There were four more of those empty containers in there. I don't even want to know. I'm out of here.

I opened to door for Sammy. "Good morning, Sammy."

"Good morning, Jay."

Sammy walked right past me and started making the bed. I figured I'd better speak first.

"Sammy," I said. "I don't have any money right now. Can you wait 'til tomorrow." I had some money. I was going to need it for the hotel. I wanted him to kick me out so I wouldn't owe anything.

"That's no good, Jay. This is not gonnah work out," he told me. He was on the other side of the bed, tucking in the sheets. "Jay," he said. "You're gonnah have to go back to the hotel. You can come back here when you have a week's rent."

"O.K.," I said. "Maybe that's what I should do."

Sammy was dusting off the mantel and straightening some books. I saw the waster basket filled with piss on floor beside the dresser. I knew I had empty that. I didn't want to take a chance with the bathroom down the hall. I might be occupied. Sammy might get suspicious if he saw me standing outside the bathroom door holding a wastebasket. He was preoccupied with his housework, so I picked up the wastebasket and walked out of the building with it. There was a trash can on the corner. I would dump it in there.

Walking along N. Rampart Street early in the mornig with a can full of pee. Saying good-morning to the people on their way to work. They say good-morning back. Nice day out, isn't it? Yes, lovely. Whatcha got in the can? Piss.

I got to the corner and tried to empty the wastebasket in the opening at the top of the trash can. The piss went everywhere; on the trash can, on the sidewalk, on my hands. People were watching me wondering what I was doing. They said to be careful. You're spilling it. Don't worry, I told them. I have another gallon in the fridge.

Sammy was calling me from his building.

"Jay! You forgot your bag."

"That's okay," I yelled back. "I'm just emptying the wastebasket."

I carried the can back to the room. I started to put it on the floor, but Sammy grabbed it first. His hand gets wet.

"Sorry about the mess," I said. "I spilled a beer in there last night."

"Oh, that's alright," he said. "O.K., Jay. Let's say the twenty bucks was for two nights. We're even. I don't like this day-by-day stuff."

We shook hands on that. Two piss-soaked hands clasped in agreement. Life is good. I better get out of here before he finds the gallon of pee in the refrigerator. I grabbed my bag and hit the road. I decided I'd stop in a bar somewhere and wash my hands, have a beer and go to work. It's a brand new day.

---

I was back at the restaurant talking to my co-worker who had recommended Sammy's rooming house.

"Hey, man. How's that working out for you over by Sammy's?"

"It didn't," I told him. "I didn't like the place. I checked ou."

"You went back to the hotel?" he asked me.

"Yeah. I'm gonnah stay there a while longer. It's not my time to move yet."

"Oh, well listen," he said. "Did you meet the guy who stays in Sammy's office?"

"No. I didn't. He mentioned him, though. Why?"

"Did you go into Sammy's office?"

"No. I had no reason to."

"Man! You should see the set-up that guy's got in there. He brews his own beer."

"No kidding," I said. "May I should have stayed there."

"No, really, man. This guy brews his own beer. And you know what? It's not that bad. It's got a kind of unique taste to it. Anyway, he's got this elaborate brewing system set up in Sammy's office. Only, he's got nothing to container the beer with. So you know what he does?"

"What?"

"He puts the beer in these plastic water containers."

So that's what they were for.

"Yeah, man," he said. "This guy brews about ten gallons of beer at a time. And Sammy, you know, he's not that bad. He brings a couple of gallons of beer around to his other buildings. Or sometimes we'll meet over at the Rampart Street place and have a barbecue out in the back."

That's nice. Real nice. One big happy family. Barbecues and bad beer. It would have to be. Flat as cool-aid. Stored in plastic. Maybe Sammy will drink some of the beer that I brewed. As for me, I'm going home. Hang out on the skids a while longer. It's more expensive up there these days, but I got a room with a bath.