A Boy and An Unlikely Porta-Potty

He grabbed himself. That little boy did. He wriggled his hips back and forth. Lifted one foot at a time. Ran from room to room.

"I really need to pee," he told himself.

He ran to the bathroom. Bumped into the door. The door being blocked by a construction worker inside. Remodeling the main bathroom. Making it look shiny and new.

He could feel his bladder growing. Like a balloon filling up with water. Too much water.

He darted into his parents room. To their bathroom.

Knock. Knock.

"I will out in a second," his mom yelled.

He ran to the bathroom in the garage. His dad's bathroom, mostly.

He ran to the door. Tried to push it open.

Just as he thought. Bad news. The door hit against his dad's leg.

The bathroom was occupied.

He began to jump faster, quicker. Foot to foot. Hands jammed against his crotch.

"Forget it! I will just pee in a bush," he convinced himself.

He ran out back.

Two other workers were there. Taking a break. Sitting. Talking. Each drinking a bottle of water.

"Urg!" He ran back into the house. Down the hallway. To his room.

There was no other option. Time had run out. And he knew he was way too old to pee his pants.

Fortunately, the trash can was empty.

He relieved himself.

Sigh.

"Mom!" he called, hoping the footsteps he was hearing were hers.