Just Me and My Urine Jug

By Joshua M. Bernstein

One chilly morning in early March, I carried a urine-filled jug around New York City. You see, for 24 hours a medical researcher was paying me a tidy sum to collect my urine. But sitting in a cramped apartment and peeing in a brown jug was woefully boring. To liven things, my friend Virgil and I crafted T-shirts (mine: Ask Me About My Urine; his: Official Urine Photographer) and attacked NYC with Kodak verve. We photographed my jug at Times Square. My piss wore headphones at Virgin Records. The urine jug shopped at Macy’s. Hell, my piss even rode the subway. Twice! In all, Virgil, my jug, and I wandered New York for four hours, only once piquing a burly teamster-type’s curiosity. But after explaining my urine was for “science,” he understood. What did this social experiment teach me? Nothing much, really, except in mass quantities my urine smells like a double cappuccino, and I’ll subject myself to nearly any humiliation to avoid gainful employment.

“Do you drink a lot of water?” Rosie the researcher had asked. “Some people need two jugs.” I assured her I required just one. As for my urine’s role, Rosie was vague. “We just test it for stress, and that’s all you need to know.” Fine by me. The researchers were getting what they wanted, and I was too–a story. Selling my urine seemed an easy out, a funny way to make rent. And help my writing.

The market is littered with J.T. Leroys and Nanny Diaries and other enterprising authors who’ve turned traumatic and trying experiences into burgeoning literary careers. I went to a public suburban school. I worked fast food. I had sexual experiences in minivans. And my parents didn’t beat me, either; what’s an average shmoe to do?

Find a loophole. If life didn’t roll me snake eyes, I’d create my own snake eyes. I worked as a pornographer for a third-rate publisher. I deserted a failing road trip in rural Montana. I fondled a young man on an Israeli kibbutz. I misspelled shame, opportunity. This particular niche has a name: “participatory journalism.” It’s a fancy name for whoring someone else’s experiences or creating some where none exist. See George Plimpton. See Hunter S. Thompson. See Josh Bernstein.

While drinking heavily, I devised the following plan: My jug and I, along with Virgil–a friend and photographer–would traverse New York’s cityscape, taking pictures and talking to people and doing, well, whatever–the sky was the limit! We’d be trailblazers, reinventing the way people thought about medical experiments. To the jug I’d fasten a hand-lettered sign reading “Beware the Power of My Piss.” All I needed for the story was an opening, several mini-adventures, and one fine punch line.

***

On the scheduled morning, Virgil and I convened in Times Square with caffeinated smiles and handmade shirts. My urine collection had begun at 3 p.m. the previous afternoon. Except for the odd Snapple bottle on lengthy road trips and doctors’ appointments, I’d kept my urinating to toilets, bushes, and subway stations. So the jug was initially novel, but the luster quickly dulled. If I stopped aiming for but one second the stream would spray the container’s lip. It was humiliating, and I had this irrational fear the researchers somehow knew I hadn’t collected the full amount. “Joshua, you have failed,” I envisioned them saying as I sheepishly handed them the partially filled pitcher.

Scarcely knowing where to begin, Virgil decided to set the scene and take a picture of me standing in the 42nd Street and Broadway intersection. I walked into the street and held the jug aloft like a trophy, but a commuter-packed bus sent me scurrying for curb. “That would’ve been so pathetic if you died like that, man,” Virgil said. “How would the coroner explain the jug to your parents?” I told him to shut up and walked over to NASDAQ.

Through two-way panes I spotted milling businessmen discussing monetary exchange with swooping arm gestures and brilliantine smiles. How about my monetary exchange: urine for money! I smooshed my chest against the window and rubbed the jug across my face. The jug was warm. I felt dirty. A balding businessman turned around. He looked bewildered. I stepped back and pointed to my chest. He slipped on glasses and read my shirt. After a few seconds of furrowed brow he looked up, gave me a thumbs up, and swiveled back into monetary debate.

“You’re leaving crotch prints,” Virgil said.

We strolled down 44th Street and saw our next mission: Toys ‘R’ Us.

This was no normal cog in the chain; the Times Square Toys ‘R’ Us featured four floors of unfettered commerce. A two-story Barbie Dollhouse. An animatronic Tyrannosaurus Rex. A candy store. And even a 60-foot Ferris wheel. We headed for the wheel. My jug was going where no jug had gone before.

Each car was themed with different toys and characters. Monopoly. Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head. Tonka Truck. We got the taters. When Virgil and I stepped into the cab we asked the young African-American ticket-taker to snap our picture. “We’re in love,” I said as I scooted close to Virgil, the jug between us. She took the photo. I thanked her.

“What’s in there?” she asked, pointing to the container.

Certain times are ripe for white lies, like lying to your mom about drugs or telling your doctor that you only have five or six drinks a week. This wasn’t such a situation.

“My urine,” I said, shaking the container so the liquid sloshed.

I started laughing.

She didn’t.

As we wandered mid-Manhattan I felt blessed to be in the metropolis. In most towns this self-aggrandizing stunt would’ve merited police intervention, even in the post-Jackass culture. Urine is a dangerous substance, you know. But amid New York City’s millions anonymity prevails. This is equal part blessing and curse. Drag queens carry sombrero-clad Chihuahuas unnoticed. Nervous breakdowns are dutifully ignored. The penniless’ pleas fall on deaf ears. But on the corner of 35th Street and Sixth Avenue we lost our anonymity. Next to a two-story inflatable rat decrying Union-busters, a burly teamster-type whose eyes looked like they could eat me, spied my shirt and said, “So tell me about your urine.”

I explained there was nothing wrong with my urine, that I was doing a medical experiment. “I get paid to pee in this jug,” I said, swirling my urine for emphasis. “At night, I don’t need to go to the bathroom; I just reach for my jug and let ‘er fly.”

“Dontcha pee on yer hands?” he asked, inching forward. I stepped back, almost running into the inflatable rat.

“No, I have a very good aim,” I said.

“Bullshit,” he said. “Everyone pees on their hands sometimes. You ain’t special just because you’re pissing in a jug; you’re just some schmuck who’s trying to make a few extra bucks.”

And as I stood on the sidewalk next to a giant rat, holding a jug of tepid urine, I thought, Yeah, he was right. I was nothing special. Just some kid spicing his white-bread life with a funny story. But he was something special. An English teacher would call him the denouement. A fiction writer would call him clichéd. I called him the perfect ending.

Rated Rookie