The Contractor's Son

[Fred]

Walter, Senior was a successful contractor and a nice guy. Walter, Junior, on the other hand, was an arrogant little prick. At twenty-one he thought he knew everything, and he had managed to alienate almost everyone he came in contact with. He needed to be brought down a peg.

I had been out to the worksite twice before with the two Walters, but this time Junior came in alone. I fetched him a large travel mug of coffee and sat him down in my office to examine a complicated set of plans that I was sure he couldn't understand, and I left him for almost twenty minutes. He was looking for me with an angry expression when I returned, so after apologizing profusely I refilled his mug and after he had drank it suggested that we go out to the site.

The previous times I had brought the two Walters out through the lobby where the rest rooms were, and on one of those occasions Junior had gone in, presumably to pee. This was unsurprising due to his age and inexperience. This time we took a different route, out the back door where I had purposely parked my pickup, and Junior looked surprised. I hustled him into the truck and started the engine before he had a chance to object. It was a half-hour drive to the worksite, and Junior seemed quieter than usual. When I saw his legs begin to wag I knew the reason why. The travel mugs were larger than the usual mugs and he’d had two, so he was no doubt feeling the pressure already. His kidneys had no doubt worked overtime to process it for him, and he probably hadn’t had much practice in actually holding it in. Schools and colleges just ‘let them go’ whenever they wanted, which wasn’t the best attitude for a working environment.

OSHA requires portable toilets, which were placed near the main entrance on Second Street. I accessed the lot from Laurel Avenue and parked near a large loam pile. The entire parcel had been bulldozed flat before construction had begun, not a tree or shrub in sight, and the area was bustling with workmen. Junior scowled and said, "How come we're over here?" He paced back and forth, unable to stand still, still reluctant to touch his groin but he winced and did look uncomfortable.

"It's closer to the action," I explained. "Let's go check the frost walls."

We talked to the foreman, a stocky, fiftyish man named George, who answered Junior's curt and uninformed questions patiently and led us even further from the portapotties. The arrogant young man was clearly ill at ease, shifting from foot to foot each time we paused.

"I've seen enough. Let's go back to the office," he barked.

"Your father will ask about the excavation for the other building," I said, and he reluctantly followed me to where the excavators were at work. I called over to the foreman there, who launched into a lengthy description of the job.

"I'll read your report. Let's get going," Junior snapped, and he started back toward the truck. I followed as slowly as possible.

Immediately behind my vehicle was a huge front-end loader, blocking us in. Bless you, George, I thought. "I'll go find the operator of that thing," I said, and it took me fifteen minutes.

When I got back, Junior's footwork was constant and more obvious, his hands were deep into his pockets, and he was sweating despite the cool weather. He mumbled something at me and swore at the loader operator, who paid no attention and revved the engine to drown him out. A moment later we pulled out onto Laurel Street and Junior's legs were flapping a mile a minute. "You gotta find me a bathroom," he said at once,

Why he didn't have me just drive around the block to the portapotties I don't know, but I merged with the traffic as he began to rock, with his hand jammed into his crotch.

"Fuck! Fuck!" he muttered. Then to me he said, "Find someplace, Goddammit, anyplace. I gotta go! I gotta go real bad!" he moaned.

At a red light I looked at him. His face was red and sweating profusely, he continued to rock, and the hand at his crotch was now squeezing his dick.

"You should have told me you had to pee," I said. I almost said pee-pee.

"You shoulda brought me out the front door where the men's room is. You shoulda parked over by the pots," he said accusingly.

"But you didn't tell me you had to go. I don't read minds. You’re not a kid anymore"

With his free hand he wiped away tears. "Wait 'til I tell my dad. You'll be sorry."

I picked the slowest-moving lane of traffic. "I am sorry that you're having a hard time holding it."

"Fuck you." He snarled, face beetroot red and rocking, holding himself

I glanced at Junior's crotch again and the blue denim seemed darker. He wiped more tears from his crimson face. The veins stood out on his clutching hand as he muttered, "Fuck!" several times. He had nothing more to say to me. Obviously the coffee had done its work admirably.

Perhaps he was so intent on not pissing his pants, or maybe he was so angry at me for his problem, but he failed to notice the fast food restaurants and service stations that I passed by. Or perhaps he realized that it was too late for that. At last we swept into the parking lot, and I selected a spot some distance from the building.

Junior leaped out, his hand grabbing his now-sodden crotch, and he bolted for the door. I could see that the seat of his jeans was wet. Two of the company employees were just coming out, and when I got into the lobby there were three more, staring at the men's room door as it swung shut. They were laughing.

I went into the men's room and heard whimpers of relief and strong continuous splashing from the single stall. It seemed to go on for a long time, even when it slowed it still trickled out.

"I can get you some old work pants to wear," I offered. He didn't answer, so I got some from the storeroom, along with a plastic bag, and brought them in. The stall door was still closed, so I flopped the pants and bag over the door. He grabbed them, and a couple of minutes later he came out in the ill-fitting chinos. His face was still red, and his eyes as well from crying. He pushed past me and out the door.

Junior never accompanied his father again on that project, much to our relief, and I later heard that he had signed up for some classes at the local community college. Walter Senior was puzzled about his son's change in career plans, but I never clued him in.

[Brian]

Well, possibly as author you didn't intend us to feel sorry for the "arrogant little prick", but I do. The whole tale is so well related and described that I can easily put myself in Walter Junior's shoes and feel the arrogant facade crashing down my ears as my bladder betrays me. I can also put myself in your shoes and that's very exciting.

To think that the uptight young guy couldn't bring himself just to tell you he needed the toilet before you went out to the site...! I can see how it happened!

[Adrian6970]

Excellent story, Fred. Well done. I like to see a little poetic justice served occasionally!

[Bowbow]

I find this story great as it encompasses everything.

I'm sure that there was no original intent to make him pee himself but to put him at a disadvantage

Id also circumnavigate toilets instead of going past them. He's an adult he should have said earlier.

I'd probably not have driven past the fast food places without offering once he asked although I'd make it his decision to stop.

I might have stated my own need, false or otherwise, to gain admission so I could challenge and play on his desperation.

But as stories go this hits all my buttons.

[zsrh2002]

Thanks for posting , well written!

I guess karma is bitch as they say!