I assure you this tale is a clean one, but the location of where this story unfolded was not.
In the mid-2000’s I was finishing up my undergraduate degree at the age of 28. I worked full-time while going to school, so many semesters were one or two part-time classes at night. When I got to my senior year, I took more daylight classes and was easily the oldest student among all of my traditional college-age classmates. I wasn’t dating anyone at the time, mostly because schoolwork enveloped all of my free time and the 20 to 23 year-old women I attended class with wanted nothing to do with my “old man student” self. Everybody was friendly and I got along with everybody at school, but it was amazing how five or six years of age difference–even in my twenties still provided a huge cultural gap.
During Saint Patrick’s Day weekend my senior year, a few friends I grew up with asked me to head down to Pittsburgh to drink with them and just be Irish for a day (I’m 100% Polish decent). I agreed to meet them in the early afternoon on the South Side just after the parade traffic let out (To this day, Pittsburgh has the second-largest Saint Patrick’s Day parade in the United States, only behind Boston). We met at one of our favorite taverns and proceeded to hop around to different establishments to check out the wonderful debauchery at each location. I managed to pick up a green hat and some beads from a few sponsored parties, so after a few hours I fit the description of a typical reveler on March 17 in America: Drunk, Irish and wearing costume jewelry. If I remember right, my hat had a Labatt’s logo on it. That’s right, a Canadian brewery putting their name on green hats for Saint Patrick’s Day. Awesome.
We eventually encountered a large gathering complete with outdoor stage, portable toilets, beer, food and LONG lines at the “porta-potties”. The atmosphere was awesome, but after drinking a half-dozen beers in under two hours, I had to piss really bad. Knowing the South Side well, I knew there were a few big restaurants and bars not far from the party in the parking lot. They had no cover charge to get in, assuming they wanted to attract people to their establishments since the street party was taking away potential business. I walked alone over to one of the restaurants with the plan of having a beer there in case they wanted rouge pissers like myself to patronize the place (Since people like me were running up their water bill).
I entered the restaurant and immediately stood in line for the men’s restroom. The men’s line was only a few men outside of the door. The women’s line was another story. There must have been twenty women waiting just to get inside the restroom. When I was the third or fourth guy waiting to get in the men’s room, a group of women jumped into the men’s room line and asked me and another guy if they could go in with us. We had a good laugh about it and agreed to the proposal. At that point I looked at the other women behind the one I was talking to. One of the girls was “Trixie”.
Trixie went to college with me. She studied under the same major as me, had multiple classes with me and barely spoke ten words to me at school. It’s not that we didn’t get along, it was that we had nothing in common. She was five years younger than me, athletic and from another part of the country. We entered the restroom and I took a piss right in front of her and her friends while we continued to talk. I washed my hands to just get out of their way so the girls had space to duck into the stalls. I can’t remember which person first struck up the conversation, but I do remember it was basic. I asked her how life was after graduating and she mentioned she was in town to party with her friends from college. We were both laughing at each others’ festive attire when something changed.
I don’t know what spurred our next action, but right before Trixie was to enter the one stall, we faced each other, put our hands around our waists and we passionately kissed. My emotions were everywhere for a split-second. I could hear the few random guys in the restroom playfully hollering at us, then I remember her friends reacting in shock with the sound of gasps and laughter at the sight of us. A few seconds later, I heard nothing. It was as if my mind blocked out every outside influence and quenched every single second of my uh, romantic moment with Trixie.
Right after our kiss was over, I said, uh, um–I can’t remember what I said to Trixie! I don’t know if I said something off putting to her or if her friends pulled her away from me (Maybe Trixie had a boyfriend?), but the next thing I remembered was walking back to the outdoor party to find my friends. I didn’t tell them what happened because I felt they wouldn’t believe that I kissed a girl in a crowded men’s restroom.
I never saw or talked to Trixie again. If I said something terrible to her that day she didn’t deserve it. She was a nice girl and I’m sure she’s doing just fine with whatever she is doing these days. Trixie and I created no memories of us at college to reflect upon, but we shared an unforgettable, spontaneous experience in the most unlikeliest of places…unless she was too drunk to remember.