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There is no doubt that being able to pee standing up has its benefits. You can put out small campfires, for one. And writing your name in the snow is always fun. But it has its drawbacks, too. There's the years of practice required to perfect one's aim. And answering nature's call while actually in nature can have disastrous results on windy days. The biggest drawback, however, is the occasional run-in with the most dreaded of stand-up pee-ers: the Talkative Urinal Neighbour, or TUN for short. TUNs are a rare breed. All men know the unwritten code of urinal usage: when the zipper goes down, the mouth stays shut. Some men, however, show little respect for the code, breaching it with shocking regularity. Bathrooms in public settings are the safest for code-abiding men. Even the brashest TUNs realize trying to chat up a stranger is futile. The most egregious offenders of the code can be found, instead, in the workplace, where the inevitable chumminess between office-mates often leads to an inexcusable chattiness in the bathroom. Fortunately, my profession (I'm an electrical engineer) tends to attract introverts, so the TUN-per-co-worker ratio in my office is low. Except, that is, for a particular group with a preposterous concentration of urinal code violators: upper management. Perhaps it's because they're such prodigious schmoozers. Or maybe they fear appearing aloof to us underlings. Whatever the reason, when your urinal buddy is in upper management, your ear will be as full as your bladder ever was. A few months back, I was taking care of "business" in silent bliss when someone cosied up beside me. I didn't know who it was, of course, because I kept my eyes straight ahead, as decreed by the code. Everything was proceeding according to protocol until, alas, he spoke. Normally when this happens, I pretend not to hear. All but the most stubborn TUNs get the hint and attempts at conversation cease. But, this time, I didn't have that option: I had recognized the voice immediately. I was peeing with the CEO. I began to panic. What could I do? If I ignored him, I could kiss any chance at a corner office good-bye. But the code. The code! I'd been a faithful follower since I used my first urinal at age seven (it was one of those barely-off-the-ground models at a McDonald's). I had no choice; I had to respond. But I'd been so surprised, the actual words he spoke hadn't registered. It may have been: "How about this beautiful weather?" In which case, as a compromise between kissing up and respecting the code, I could nod my head and offer a one-beat, close-lipped laugh, as if to say, "Yes, how about that thing-you-just-said. Isn't it great!" But what if he had said, "How about that plane crash?" Then I would have to extend a solemn "hmmm," as if to say, "I know, it's a shame about that thing-you-just-said." Since TUNs tend to stick to innocuous topics, I opted for the head-nod, muted-laugh combo. It worked; he seemed satisfied with my response. And, more importantly, I still had my integrity: my lips hadn't parted. Then, I noticed movement in my peripheral vision. Impossible, this couldn't be happening, I thought. But it was. He was turning his head toward me. Not only was he going to speak again, he was trying to make eye contact. This was an unprecedented event in the history of stand-up communal urination. Talking is bad enough, but eye contact? Unthinkable! Was this man from a foreign country without public washrooms? Had he never even heard of the code? What was next: A playful punch in the shoulder? A slap on the back? A hearty man-hug? He was just about to speak when the door swung open. "It's busy in here," came a voice from behind us. "I guess I'll have to wait." Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't have been pleased. According to the code, if no urinal is free, a man must either use a stall or exit the bathroom immediately. Loitering is forbidden. But the CEO, happy to bond with a fellow TUN, momentarily forgot about me and quipped, "Yeah, better get in line!" The exchange bought me enough time to finish, zip up, quickly wash my hands and escape. It was a close call, but I had honoured the code. I can hold my head high and say I said nothing. Not a word. It may have been my finest moment. |