Originally published in Word Riot, Feb 2008

Crabby since yesterday, running low on good will, Bronco drinks, knowing he shouldn't while he does. Draining his beer, he orders two more from a vendor pushing his cart, rickety-rattling his cart down the aisle—chewing gum, candy, cardboard sandwiches, soda, beer. Bronco gives the Kid 20. Kid gives back change for a 10. 20! 10! 20! 10! The Kid is skinny, green Mohawk, black Gu-Joe heavy metal t-shit; Skull, Fangs, ripped. Perhaps the Kid is stoned, or, worse, isn't, is this way all the time. Bronco says this to the Kid; Fuck You is what he says, taking change from the 10, cracking open the beer, sliding the glass door closed in an angry way; brutal, but not dangerous. Noise of the corridor shut out, kid shut out. The Kid, now on other side of glass is demonstrating to Bronco penultimate disrespect; middle fingers up, mouth snarly, eyes squinty, thinking Fuck You, Bronco reading the Fuck You, getting it. Then, business is business the Kid is gone.

Bronco has to pee. Bad but not terrible, but closing in, approaching terrible the T just then becoming visible. Don't want to pee. Hold it. These are actually words in Bronco's mind, a flashing billboard. The billboard changes, becomes, in succession: Will hold it, Must do so, Will do so, then repeats.

Lamoine, sitting across from Bronco faces backwards, faces Chicago. Bronco faces forward in the direction of Cincinnati, a half hour away and approaching. Lamoine, top down solid albino, stretched out, lounging, then, Kid gone sits upright, scoots forward on his bench seat and is now knee cap to knee cap with Bronco. Lamoine, arms still tucked behind his head, head phones on super loud, Monster-Devil rap escaping into the compartment, fakes listening, fakes bopping, fakes being super relaxed.

Lamoine, eyes opaqued behind opaque black sunglasses is super cool, is watching Bronco, is watching careful, is timing his move. There is the billboard in Lamoine's mind. It reads, WAIT. The letters scroll. It now reads, TIME YOUR MOVE, and then, next, TIMING IS EVERYTHING, IT'S GOT TO BE JUST RIGHT.

This is Lamoine; thinking, scheming, sensing. Lamoine is not happy if not doing one of the above. Once, as a present to his girlfriend for her birthday, Lamoine (for real) relaxes, kicks back; eats, drinks, looses much of his waist to food, to drink. Entrusting the telephone with his voice, with his ear, Lamoine speaks, listens, does both, one after the other and so on, and so forth. Relaxed he can handle both. Before Relaxed came it was one or it was the other; speak, or listen. His girlfriend's kid starts calling Lamoine, Uncle. For the effort Lamoine gets six to twelve but due to a national ruckus relating to over crowding—twelve to a cell built for four—Lamoine is released in Two. While incarcerated Lamoine has thought it over, has recommitted himself to Not Relaxing ever again.

A snapshot of Lamoine taken at the end of his Two looks like this: Lamoine, albino, wasp-waisted, weight on the balls of his feet, shoulders slightly hunched—as in, I am ready to spring at your throat—paper bag in one hand, girlfriend's hand in his other hand is standing at a bus stop across the road from Bartonsberg State Penitentiary. The weather? Nice. Girlfriend? Pregnant, but not yet showing.

In the train compartment, Lamoine, fake bopping behind Opaqueness, inside Opaqueness, watches Bronco. Bronco, urine-filled, topped-off, well past being okay—the needle on his gauge, the gauge measuring the fullness of urine tank has moved with both feet into Terrible.

This is what Lamoine sees from inside Opaqueness. He sees Bronco. Sees Bronco's legs, fingers, his neck, all over Bronco go twitchy, go tremor, go palsy, go fake calm, go Repeat all of the above. Then Bronco goes Yellowish. Only Lamoine can see Yellowish. Lamoine's radar picks up Yellowish, informs Lamoine, not in words, in Radar speak. How does Radar speak? Radar speaks Dot-dash talk, speaks Voodoo, speaks code only Lamoine is equipped to translate.

Before Bronco's legs know what to do, as the idea he must piss or explode twists and scoots its way downward through his brain stem, Lamoine, on his feet, slams open the train compartment's door, beelines for the men's room, Bronco on his tail, hot, steaming, mouth working, tongue shaping words, spewing words into the smoky blue tube of air which is the train's aisle.

"Mo-fo. Lamoine, you mo-fo." Shouting this, shouting other things, some things not yet things only parts of things, not yet full fledged words but none-the-less meaningful to smokers in the aisle. Bronco, slamming palms, fists, against the men's room door goes palsy times two, times three, is no longer Yellowish, is, instead, Yellow, Yellow enough for the smokers in the aisle to see. Minutes pass, Bronco filling each one with shouting, cursing, all of the above. Lamoine, all cool, Not Relaxed, opens the door.

"Asshole," Bronco hisses, pushes past Lamoine, slamming shoulders with Lamoine, slamming shut the door, locking, unzipping, pulling Private from pants. Herky-jerky, one not so fluid movement, no ballet.

Mustering for bad news, Bronco looks down. There it is, my Private. Bronco speaks, man to man to his Private. This is what he says: You are Red, you are Swollen, Weeping, Angry, newsworthy and all mine. Then Bronco thinks something. This is what he thinks: I have earned this. He speaks again to his Private. You belong to me. The last sentence is a question yet it has no question mark, no voice up-turning at the end. None-the-less it is a question, it is a bewilderment. Bronco believes, doesn't, then does, finally and with calmness believes, knows he belongs to his Private, knows he is attached to it and not visa-versa. Visa-versa he realizes is wrong, implies control and control Bronco knows there is none of. Private is Captain. Private is in control of the ship. Bronco knows he has just thought a metaphor, maybe two.

Bronco begins a slow count to ten. Eight, nine, ten. On ten this is what Bronco promises himself; I will pee. Says eight, nine, ten. Can't. Tries again. Nine, ten. Can't, Won't, Never, Almost never, Still, Must, But are some thoughts fragments ricocheting ear to ear and back, and back and forth, and so on.

Inside Bronco's head Stravinsky lives; aged, demented, his apartment a mess. On a Victrola The Firebird blares, full blast, max'd out, number ten. Then, quiet, number zero, sub-zero, pin-drop quiet as a new plan forms. This time—this is the new plan—No goal, just count. True, a small plan but one coming with a delicate ribbon, neat bow. When the time comes, who knows when (Bronco doesn't)—and this is the plan's beauty—no external pressure, no stress, he will sense a readiness to pee, and pee. When the time is right, Bronco thinks this, I will pee. Monkeys can, I will, is another of his thoughts.

Activating the plan, Bronco says, Go. Says this aloud or perhaps says it to himself? Can't tell. The train, an enormous noise machine, groans, squeals, seems to be, maybe is attempting communication. Bronco, addled, thinks this, thinks that, thinks something else, doubles back, thinks definitely the train speaks. Hears the train Robot-Speaking, metal talking to man. Ahoy, Bronco says to the train. Ahoy, the train says to Bronco. Bronco is a little convinced of all this.

New plan in operation, numbers ticking, counting; one, two, three. Reaching thirty-seven, his age, Bronco lets go. The Urine River flows, boroughs, tunnels down the urethra seeking the fastest way out. Slams into Angry, Red, Swollen and is slowed then totally defeated by Angry, Red, Swollen. Unconditional surrender is demanded. Hopping around Men's Restroom, Bronco, private in one hand, pen in the other signs the document, surrenders to Angry, Red, Swollen. It feels to Bronco as if Urine River, slowed to a crawl, millimetering it's way down has entered the Excavational phase of its journey to the sea. Knows Sea is a metaphor, knows Excavational may not be a word. Knows this as Excavational, the word, accumulating letter parts forms on his tongue.

A Voice inside Bronco's head clears its throat. Bronco has heard this clearings of the throat before, knows who will speak before Voice speaks. The Voice, Bronco knows this is just doing its job. It's job? To cloak ignorance. Bronco, the Voice speaks, What you are about to say (Excavational) may not be a proper word. Do not embarrass me. Then the Voice, turning sly, turning all mellow, all croony continues. And Bronco, do not embarrass yourself in front of your Private.

Fuck you. Bronco says this to the Voice, his on-board teacher. Fuck you. Lets Excavational stand. Lets Excavational slide through his lips, surface, taste the stinking air of the Men's Restroom. Word out, Bronco feels better but only for a nana-micro-mil-a-second. During nana-micro-mil-a-second Bronco feels Liberated, Out of School, Free, Unconventional. Then he doesn't feel this way, not at all, feels the opposite of Free, Liberated, Unconventional. Feels instead only his Private, the central Black Hole of the universe, black and devouring. Up close to the Black Hole Bronco hears the screaming of stars, of planets, their screaming inarticulate yet understandable. Bronco howls at the black hole of the universe. Like the stars, the planets, Bronco is inarticulate yet understandable.

Urine River now in Roto-Rooter phase is stopped short of the outer world by a thick plug of Crust living at tip of Bronco's Private, camping out there, entire Crust family come along, taken up semi-permanent residence at the end of Bronco's Private. The Urine River, defeated again, this time by Crust plug, rests, creates urine version of Lake Mead at the end of Bronco's Private.

Next time, Bronco hisses this at his Private, Let me do the Thinking, the Talking, okay? Crazy with pain Bronco waits, listens, expects any moment his Private will be a man, apologize, say Sorry, say So sorry, promise not to be bossy. Private says nothing. No yes, no no, no maybe.

At the urinal, Private cradled in his palm, made rubbery by pain, Bronco hears another Voice, also familiar. It belonging to his inner-prosecutor, his inner-interrogator.

Have you ever, the Voice asks, now or at any time been a member of. Stopping the Voice Bronco confesses. I confess. I will sign whatever if doing so makes my Private shut up. What should I confess too? From the new Voice, silence. Bronco decides on a blanket confession. Voice, Bronco bleats, I plead guilt to Everything, to Everybody. It, Everything, is all my fault. Voice will not accept blanket confession to Everything, to Everybody, says, now scoldy, all stern, No way. Voice says: I need names, specifications, measurements, dates, need evidence. Voice tells Bronco to wait while it gathers the above. How long? This is Bronco's question to the Voice but the Voice is already gone. Bronco bites his cheek, eats his cheek, hopes the Voice returns before he eats his tongue, etc.

The train sways. Bronco sways. The train loops left, Bronco sways right. The train loops right, Bronco left. To steady himself, for balance, to maintain uprightness, to keep from collapsing onto the Men's Restroom nutrient rich floor, Bronco, Private cradled in one hand plants his other hand, palm forward against the wall above the urinal obscuring the name of Terri, who, according to an authority who writes in grammer-school-perfect cursive gives T-rif-ic something. The something T-rif-ic Terri gives covered over by slashes of black laundry marker.

Slowing, hissing, metal grinding on metal the train enters a cavernous train barn, cutting light in Men's Restroom to near zero, to 25 watts. Cincinnati, says a crackly voice from the ceiling, a voice that (Bronco thinks this may be true) does not originate inside my head.

The train jerks to an almost-halt. Cincinnati, repeats the voice in the ceiling. The train jerks again, then again, back and forth. Urine sloshes. Sloshes left, sloshes right, sloshes back and forth. The urinal's red rubber mat, afloat in six inches of urine mixture (cigarettes butts, wads of chewed gum, etc.) flops onto the floor. Urine leaps, splatters Bronco's shoes, his trousers. Mid-thigh down Bronco is wet, is cold.

Through the window, in the dim cavern of the train barn, outside on the platform, laughter. Running people embrace running people. Outside, in the gloom, happy people are made happier by being in Cincinnati.

Lake Mead is about to overflow, to inundate parts of Nevada, of Arizona, swatches of California. Biting his tongue, tasting blood, feeling pain from a different part of his body, Bronco turns darker.

Fuck you. Bronco says this to Inner Prosecutor. Says more. Says, I retract confession. Says this aloud, shouts it in the Men's Restroom: I will not confess is what he shouts. Another full-fledged thought blinks on, illuminating emptiness, his head. The new plan, also gift wrapped; ribbon, bow, the whole works, but now better, now with fancier paper, red and green, seasonal, higher class.

I will swap Privates with Lamoine. This is the new plan. Cut off my Private, cut off Lamoine's, swap. Bronco has another thought. First (this is the thought), must speak to Private, converse, man to man, tell Private about the new plan, explain, say why, say—as in an ad to join the Navy—Adventure, say see New Sights, say meet New People, say meet perhaps Better People and rub elbows with a Higher Class Crowd.

At the men's room door, banging, cursing, a horde. From the intensity of the cursing, of the banging Bronco estimates hundreds are in the aisle, banging, cursing. Then, as if instructed to cease and desist they stop. A chorus of silence follows as men in the aisle urinate against the outside of the Men's Restroom door. Urine flows under the door, puddles around Bronco's shoes. This is the moment when Bronco's Crust-plug dam breaks and with a shriek he adds his urine to that of the men outside the door and in this way reconnects with Humankind.

Bronco, now empty, now hurting, slides sideways and to the left, turns, hops up and drops his rear into the half-full sink basin. It fits. Now a wick, Bronco sops up a gallon of murky sink water, and, chest to ankle is wet, is cold, is—in, on and around Private—throbbing. Pulling Physician-Authorized ointment jar from his jacket pocket Bronco unscrews the top and carefully, —rocket-scientist-carefully—applies ointment to his Private.

Working from base to tip, applying ointment, Bronco thinks; Better, thinks Not the Best of Times, but Better. Ointment applied, Bronco watches Private shift in hue, in intensity, go from red to orange, to, near the base yellowish-gray. He speaks to his Private, informs Private of the upcoming swap with Lamoine.

Bronco, speaking slowly, striving for unambiguous clarity informs Private about a future he sees. Just a few easy steps, he says slowly to Private, then goes into detail mode. 1. Cut you free. 2. Refrigerate you. 3. Knock out Lamoine. 4. Cut off Lamoine's Private. 5. Refrigerate, and So On, the So On being the sewing on part. Bronco's Private pretends no to have heard, not to have understand the unambiguous, preferring to remain silent, noncommittal. Bronco interprets Privates silence as; Not for, Not against, just silent. Perhaps Private is thinking it over, perhaps not.

Bronco goes into super-sonic-hyper-active-plan-mode, goes into fine tuning, detail mode. Go to Walgreens. This is his first thought. In Cincinnati, Bronco thinks, knows, is almost certain of, there are Walgreens. Things to buy. He makes a list: Buy Sharp things, Needle and thread things, Antiseptic things, Cotton balls, Gauze, Chloroform, a Mallet from Ace Hardware. The Mallet is to club Lamoine.

Bronco sees it all, the beginning, the middle, the end of his plan. Cut, then sew. Repeat. Then heal, heal, heal. Rehab. Exercise. Exercise. Eat better, no drink, no smoke. A year, less, who knows.

Rear end stuffed into the sink basin in the Men's Restroom Bronco envisions the future. A year has passed and Bronco, naked, is standing in front of a full-length mirror. He looks. What he sees shouts Good News. There it is, Lamoine's private between my legs. In the Men's Restroom Bronco makes a list. Call Brenda, show her. Call Eva, show her. Call Dotty, show her. There is a banging at the window. It comes from Lamoine. Lamoine is standing outside in the gloom of the train cavern surrounded by happy people. With his fists Lamoine is banging against the Men's Restroom window. Jumping up and down, banging, muted word-parts fly out of Lamoine.

Private still in hand, glisteny under a layer of ointment, Bronco, sloshing through an inch deep skim of Humankind approaches the window. Lamoine tips up his sunglasses, eyes-slits widening to eyes appears impressed by Bronco's Private just then eye to eye (or almost) with Lamoine. What does Lamoine see? Sees Bronco's Private, now gray, now orange, now yellow, still scarlet at the tip. Lamoine, perhaps no longer impressed, lowering his sunglasses, going opaque, steps aside. Bronco sees his wife, his son. Thinks Something, thinks Something Else. With his free hand he waves, mouths Hello, mouths Something Else.