Pissed
Deborah Douglas Wilbrink
Word Count 905
One night, at a suburban nightclub somewhere near Atlanta, two young men appeared and offered an adventure “Want to see the abandoned VA hospital with us?” asked Kenny.
I grew up exploring abandoned or under-construction buildings. The more forbidden or dangerous, the more alluring. I thought of another hospital, St. Joseph’s, my latest architectural exploration. It was scheduled for demolition, but curious about where I’d been born, I’d recently snuck in, strolling the spookily empty long halls and small rooms. What would the VA hospital look like? It had been raining; it was night; this would be a different experience.
Yes, let’s see. On the road, Kenny offered us a dose of LSD, and I was eager for its extra insight. Cars on the interstate sparkled their star-lights, red, white and yellow, changing to bright pops and particle streaks before we pulled onto a black-top highway, then into the hospital drive.
Chicken-wire fencing surrounded the compound, but its gate was easy enough to crawl under. Dirt ground under my belly; I inhaled its released smell before rising. A single pole light glared, casting more shadow than illumination, here and there lighting water that pooled on the uneven asphalt. Boxy grey buildings receded before us, lining the street like stage sets waiting to be pushed and pulled into place, more metal than marble. Soon we stood in front of a concrete wall, an unassailable façade. The tin sign attached to the corner read Morgue.
“C’mon,” said my skinny guide, his mustache lifting, “Let's go!”
His resounding bootsteps led to a huge arched doorway of wooden panels, painted a peeling Army green. Cavernous and closed. He kicked the door, but it only swallowed the sound, the way a sandbar swallows a wave. The darkness was a bandage leaking light. Here was where the ambulances had passed; here was where the hearses had parked. Senses were dialed high, inseparable into their components of taste, smell, sight, sound, touch, and extrasensory perception—for ghosts were watching us. They shifted in the shadows; they had no feet.
One, a soldier, watched, his green cap perched at a jaunty angle in contrast to his morose expression. Still eyes followed our every move, directed tentacles of sight that slid by in the dark. Other shades passed me with a gurney, moving quickly, intent on melting through that closed door. No palpable evil, but definitely haunted. This was not my first ghost rodeo, but the acid added another dimension.
It merged my body with the surroundings; one with all. Yet my body was individual, for it nudged me. I shifted onto the dirt outside of the paved area and squatted to piss away the disco’s drinks. Kenny decided to join me. No inhibitions were in play at the moment; I felt nothing at the fact of us peeing near each other, focused on the warm release. Nothing, until he swung around and continued pissing, on me.
What the hell! I was confused, but Kenny laughed and called to his friend to watch. Too high to object, shook myself off, and soon the three of us had crawled back under the fence.
In the car’s closeness, we all knew I was in need of a hot shower, but no one spoke. Kenny put the radio on. The FM deejay was spinning Led Zeppelin and “The Rain Song” had never sounded sweeter. It created thinking space as we returned to the club, where my car was parked. Home, I stripped my clothes into the trash; I wouldn’t let a thrift store rack hold that shame. Washing the smell away, I purged the disco, the hospital and the young men from my future. The memory was carved in the cortex.
Watching the “golden shower” with dispassionate acidic eyes revealed to me the power of the penis—how irrelevant it was, and yet so easy to wield. That man was not as smart as I was, I thought, nor as pretty, inside or out. Pissing on me was his way of establishing superiority. Pissing on me in front of his friend was a way to establish pecking, or pissing, order.
Freud might have noted a case of penis envy, but I didn’t want a penis. I sought my own power. Surely a simple fact of biology did not establish a man’s precedence over any and every female. Yet, it was undeniable that standing up while peeing gave freedoms: to run, to fight, to act and react much faster! My horse sometimes peed when walking. The male dog communicated easily with his markings. It was squatting that put one at a disadvantage.
I began training, and before long I could stand and aim a stream of urine away from my feet. Then I could hit the center of the toilet, albeit uncomfortably straddled, facing the back like the boys and men I had seen. Sometimes I pulled this trick when with a man as a show of power and for its shock value. Like smoking a cigar in public, it had its uses (usually distancing the observer).
But after a few months of this I resumed sitting and squatting. It was easier: clothes got in the way. Standing up to pee makes sense on outdoor days in the cold, when you’re wearing a skirt and nothing underneath. And that’s—well—for me, that’s never. But I learned and practiced the politics of pee.
Now I may be pissed off, but never pissed on.
Deborah stories are often set in the Second Wave of feminism. She emerged in 2025 writing stories for Etched Onyx, Syncopation Journal, Bright Flash and more, after ghostwriting more than 50 memoirs for elders. Deborah lives between Asheville and Barcelona, where she volunteers singer-songwriter performances. Her latest song, “Debrina’s On Fire” is featured on YouTube.