T.R. Hendricks

The PCS

His sedan cruises along Interstate 10, heading towards Tucson. Somewhere out his driver side window is the Mexico border, while the good old USofA stretches for miles to the north on his passenger side. He’s surrounded by the serene beauty of the New Mexico desert, not a single man made structure in sight save for the hardball road he is on and the occasional exit sign. The tan and burnt orange soil is interspersed by patches of scrub brush and short, prickly bushes. Striking red rock formations sit in the distance backlit by a bright, blue sky. Why is the sky blue? Because God loves the Infantry, that’s why. He sighs. Those days are behind him now, in his rearview, as it were. His branch detail time done, his tracks pinned on, he makes his way towards Fort Huachuca to begin the second leg of his career in military intelligence school.

The scenery really is beautiful. He’s glad he can appreciate it. He never thought he would be able to enjoy a desert after his first deployment, yet here he is finding solace in one, even if it’s happening at eighty miles an hour. The isolation is comforting as well. He checks his mirrors again. Nope, not a single car behind him. None in front of him either. It’s been that way for the better part of an hour. Good, he could use some alone time.

One catch. The problem with isolated serenity is there’s no fucking bathrooms.

It’s bad. Real bad. He doesn’t know how much longer he can hold it. He squirms on the seat. He tries to put his mind elsewhere, to ignore the pressing that minute by minute seems like it’s creeping into his kidneys, but it’s gone on too long. So long that it’s actually become painful. If he doesn’t take a leak soon, his bladder may very well burst. Either that, or he’ll end up pissing himself.

Sure, he could just pull over and go on the side of road he tells himself, but that would slow him down. His predisposition to keeping strict efficiencies when it comes to timelines, combined with an all around anal retentiveness refuses to let that happen. Why should he slow down? He’s alone in the car, nothing but a few boxes and uniforms in the back. The delay would cost him getting to his hotel at the desired hour. The process of slowing down, pulling over, doing the deed, and then getting back up to speed would just attach extra minutes onto this leg of the trip. Not only is this abhorrent, it’s unnecessary, especially when he has a perfectly good, empty Gatorade bottle sitting in the cup holder.

He checks the mirrors again first. The road is still empty. “Fuck it”, he says out loud and begins the one handed fumbling process of pulling open his belt, unbuttoning and unzipping his shorts. The alignment on the car is still a little off, so taking both hands from the wheel is more trouble than it’s worth. Next comes unscrewing the cap, making sure to hold onto it tightly and place it in the other, empty cup holder. The last thing he needs is to drop it and have an open bottle of piss riding next to him the rest of the way. Task accomplished, he digs into his boxer briefs. Member out, he stuffs it into the bottle. The sweet, sweet release and sound of urine streaming into the plastic container almost brings tears to his eyes. He leans his head back and moans into the car. God this feels good.

When he puts his eyes back on the road, he immediately notices the Chevy Suburban riding directly next to him. Where in the hell it came from, he’ll never know. One second the interstate is empty, the next there is an SUV magically by his side. The height of the vehicle allows the driver to look directly down into his car. And of course, fate would decide that this driver happens to be an incredibly gorgeous blonde, the on her way to Hollywood type. As she glances his way her mouth drops open and she let’s off the gas, the two vehicles immediately separating.

“Oh shit!” he says to no one in particular. Looking in his rearview, he sees the driver and her passenger animated through their windshield. The passenger keeps pointing at his car. Seemingly reluctant, the driver appears to give in to her passengers’ demands, and slowly the Suburban begins to speed back towards him.

He panics. First he tries to speed up as well, but his is a Japanese four cylinder with no hope of outrunning the large eight the Chevy is packing. On top of that, he’s not keen on the idea of drag racing while his dick is stuffed in a bottle with one hand wrapped around it. Next he tries to clip it off, to stop midstream and stow away his gear as quickly as possible, but the equipment won’t comply. He’s opened the floodgates, and there’s no holding back the deluge any longer. So he tries the reverse, to push it out, get a little extra force behind the flow. This helps some, but he waited so long and was so backed up that there is no way he’ll be done by the time they catch up to him. He checks the mirrors again and sees them coming up alongside. Maybe he should pull a Maverick? Hit the brakes, let them fly right by? Yeah, sure, and then spend the rest of the day wearing his own piss. Fuck that.

So, out of options, he does what any good Infantryman would do. As the women pull up the blonde looks in again, while her friend, an equally gorgeous, pixie haired brunette leans over her arms to get a peek. He looks up at them both, and then nods to his junk in acknowledgement. Turning back to the Suburban, he simply shrugs his shoulders, and then blows them both a kiss.

The ladies burst out in laughter. The brunette actually snaps a photo of him. Great, that’ll end up on her Facebook feed later. Done with their amusement, they both blow him a kiss back, wave, and then speed off. In mere moments they disappear over a rise up ahead, never to be seen again. He finishes his last few spurts and drops, and then gingerly makes the transition to the cupholder, putting the cap back on and scewing it tight. He secures everything else left open and a few hours later, pulls into his hotel, right on time.