Pissing on the Sidewalk

Happenings on the way to Chapel

There she squatted, pissing. 

Facing the road, relieving herself along the sidewalk without any sense of shame or concern of privacy. One more shuffling person making their way to the Trent Shelter. 

Cars driving past, people looking and reacting. Yet another awkward moment that is losing its shock the more people living outside increases. What normally happens inside, now takes place outside more and more in Spokane. 

What will the kids think?

What does she think?

She’s been holding it for a long time, by the looks of it, I thought. 

I live in the woods. 

Everything is pissing outside here. It’s a natural thing. Men piss outside all the time. But women? 

Years ago, I remember strolling back to our flat under soft lamp lights, along cobblestone streets after an exquisite dinner in Lyon. Head swimming warmly from the French wine, heart and stomach full with the culinary delights and hospitable conversations. Everything was beautiful, the city, the words on the menu, the lilting voices, even the tripe. Everything and everyone seemed to embody a European mystique that felt dreamlike. 

Then I saw her. 

Backed up against a parked car, hunched over in a dinner dress, pissing. Finishing daintily, pulling up her skirt, her shoes clicking awkwardly on the cobbled alley. 

Quick, utilitarian and unashamed. 

“It’s normal here”, I was told, not too long after being warned that me spitting on the ground was considered uncouth and rude. 

Women piss on the street in France, in Spokane, not so much, but that’s changing. 

We kept driving on our way to another shelter to hold a chapel service for women, many who’ve probably pissed on the street. 

This morning in the aftermath of an odd and awkward evening of happenings, I’m left wondering: What did the homeless Jesus do when he had to go?