Golden sunshine, golden showers
Over the years a lot of different men have tried to piss on me, for a lot of different reasons. On the night of December 6 2001, one of them finally succeeded.
I arrived in San Diego after dark and checked into a hostel called the Banana Bungalow. Boasting a prime beachfront location, it was allegedly rated “best in the city” by the leading travel guides.
I immediately knew I wasn’t going to fit in. The place was full of punkish American youths. Half of them had the sleepy eyes of the perpetually stoned. Most were wholly focused on abusing as many substances as possible by the end of the night. One unhealthy-looking dude constantly tried to sell me Valium. “Come on, man,” he kept saying. “I really need the cash.”
I got fed up with this situation pretty quickly, and went to bed around 11:30 p.m. A big, bald-headed dude was passed out on the bunk above, an early casualty of beer and Valium. He snored loudly, but it was nothing I couldn’t ignore. I slid under the covers and promptly fell asleep.
I awoke to a strange pouring noise. It was close. Very close. Jesus, was the roof leaking? I looked around, still half asleep. Then I realized the source of the sound was a stream of urine pouring down on me from the mattress above.
I recoiled in disgust, but it was too late. My blanket, my sheets, and myself had been anointed. I scrambled out of my bunk and stood in the half-light, my underwear dripping with another man’s piss.
The urine poured. And poured. And poured. My god, I thought, this guy’s bladder must be the size of a basketball. Court. How can a mortal man go for so long? Still he snored, oblivious to the river of pungent post-beer that sprung from his loins.
At last, the deluge stopped. I stared at the aromatic sponge that was moments ago my bed. To coin a phrase, I was pissed.
So now what? I considered waking Big Bald Dude. Then again, he had a huge spider web tattoo on his neck, and his torso was a collage of violent and disturbing scenes.
Best leave him alone, I thought. I scavenged some new sheets (well, actually, used sheets) and moved to another bunk. A top bunk.
I tossed and turned for the next hour. Turns out it’s difficult to be nonconsensually pissed on and go right back to sleep afterward. As a further distraction, a quartet of tough-talkin’ dudes from New York were talkin’ tough on the other side of my wall.
Then the shit really hit the fan. Valium dude and some other guy were in the bathroom doing crystal meth, and their girlfriends—one of whom was visibly pregnant—got upset and broke up the party.
A loud argument erupted, and the next thing I know this guy is beating his pregnant girlfriend. It was real fast, two or three quick hits and then he tossed her into her bunk and stormed out. By the time I realised what was going on and sat up, it was already over.
Meanwhile, Valium dude was beating up his girlfriend in the room across the hall. He was apparently slamming her head in the door, then a pair of Australian sisters came to her defence and mayhem ensued. The hostel manager threw Valium dude out, and then the cops came, but they couldn’t do anything because the girlfriend refused to press charges. The cops didn’t know about the violence in my room, so they didn’t pay us a visit.
Back in my room, the pregnant girl was crying on her bunk with one of her friends. She said she was leaving him for sure this time, and was divvying up their drugs, which were kept in a series of clear plastic bags hidden in her books.
Her boyfriend had joined the New York dudes on the other side of the wall, and talked about how he’s so good to her 95 per cent of the time because he loves her so much. A long conversation about when it is permissible to hit one’s bitch ensued, punctuated by the crack of beer cans. I finally drifted off to sleep at about 4 a.m., not long after the pregnant girl and her boyfriend reconciled.
Morning came. I wanted to leave. But I’d paid for two nights, so I hung in there. Besides, Big Bald Dude’s apology—which was humble and sincere, almost tearful—had filled me with optimism.
The second night wasn’t as bad. But it had its moments. As darkness fell, the New York dudes showed up with two pairs of boxing gloves, and everyone started pummeling each other.
In the evening’s most anticipated match, a big drunk girl took on a smaller drunk guy she was angry at because he took her weed or something. He nailed her in the face on his first punch and she ran off in tears.
So, anyway, the hostel sucked. But the beach was nice. •
Originally published in The Peak, January 21 2002.
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