June flash tale #1 - "Careful" (double-length)

Toronto, Canada

I must be honest; following the latest APP protocols feels like stepping onto the glass floor at the top of the CN tower.

I’m reminded of what my big sister Diane said all those years ago, when I was afraid to move beyond the scuff plate. “Come on, Tim, don’t be such a scaredy-cat! If it can handle the weight of 35 moose, I’m pretty sure it can handle you!”

How did she know about the moose? She read it in the guidebook.  Diane respects expertise, she treats it as gospel – she’s old-fashioned that way. Diane has always been the one armed with instruction manuals or Subject Matter Experts, which has sometimes made her braver than me over the years, sometimes more careful. Since the virus, the emphasis has been on the latter.

“We have to follow the protocols. They’re based on the latest evidence. And if they change, it’s only because of new data. I’ll trust the authorities before something you read on Instagram.”

Most of Diane’s concern has been aimed at me, because I’m in the most vulnerable age group for either being physically regressed or mentally adjusted. I’ve been careful – I don’t want to end up in diapers any more than the next guy – but I still need to live my life. And I need to earn a living.

As luck would have it, I was visiting Diane when the last lockdown happened, and so ended up staying in her spare room. Two weeks of eating the contents of her vegan-friendly, normal person-unfriendly freezer, and grateful for food deliveries from middle-aged couriers.

A judgmental look in my direction. “Sure you want to eat that?”

I wipe pepperoni grease from my lips. “Positive.”

Thank God for the Internet, keeping us entertained, although I’m more The Good Place and Diane is more…every true crime documentary she can find. I shake my head when she finds another one on Netflix. “You planning something?” I ask her. “Should I be sleeping with one eye open?”

Thank God for the Internet, keeping us informed, although after a while I stopped watching the news – too depressing. But even when I stopped doom-scrolling, Diane would tell me the numbers of new cases every morning at breakfast (me with the Cinnamon Toast Crunch, her with the granola) until I begged her to stop.

That judgmental look in my direction. “Don’t you want to know how to protect yourself? Don’t you want to stay safe?”

Eventually she relented (she always does in the end; can’t resist her little brother’s puppy-dog eyes) and we agreed that unless there was something earth-shattering – zombie apocalypse, or the Maple Leafs getting to the second round of the playoffs, ha-ha – she would spare me from the news headlines.

The first day restrictions are lifted, I go back to work and then bring back a pizza for Diane and me to enjoy. A way to thank her for her hospitality over the lockdown, and a way to let her know that I’d be moving back to my own place the next morning. I even get a vegan one from Pizzeria Libretto, so she’ll know I’m making an effort.

Over dinner, my phone buzzes, and I’m the one with the headline.

“My boss just tested positive. She’s having…bladder issues.”

Diane puts down her slice. “Did you spend any time with him?”

I groan. “Only the whole day.”

Diane nods. “Then you’re under quarantine.”

I groan louder. “How long?”

“Protocol says six days.”

“I can’t! The team’s counting on me to show up now, the boss is out, I can’t-“

This time, my puppy-dog eyes don’t work. I’m stuck in my sister’s apartment again.

The next morning, I go through for breakfast and Diane is unloading groceries. “What, you went to Loblaws?”

I nosey around one of the reusable totes until she bats me away. “I’m not the one under quarantine,” she says primly, “you are.”

“But we’re living in the same place. Are you allowed-“

Diane interrupts me with a sharp laugh. “You’re going to argue with me about protocols.” She raises an eyebrow. “Seriously?” Diane’s age and numbers suggest that she’s low risk. I’m 25, and when I was screened last month, the nurse shook her head and said I would have to live like a monk not to get infected.

I offer to help put the shopping away, but she flaps her hands and sits me down at the kitchen table.

“I got the coffee you like,” she says, producing a bag of Starbucks Summatra. “And I bought bacon.”

I watch in amazement as she fries me a blood-thirsty breakfast. “Wow,” I say.

She wrinkles her nose. “Don’t forget how well I took care of you,” she says, “when I’m old and frail.”

I laugh. “You’re only eight years older than me!”

“The deal,” says Diane as she puts the plate of bacon, egg, sausage in front of me, “is that you can eat what you like, but you also have to drink plenty of fluids.” She puts a tall glass of orange juice down beside the plate. “I expect to see that empty, okay?”

“You’re the boss,” I say drily.

She nods. “Better believe it.”

After breakfast, I notice there’s a box she hasn’t unpacked. I look at the label, and then I sniff. “What did you go there for?”

“Protocol,” Diane replies. “Take it through to the living room for me.”

The box is bulky but not so heavy. I take it through and put it on the coffee table.

Diane cuts through the packing tape with a knife and then says, “All of this is for your own good. Because I know the rules, because we must be careful. Okay?”

I huff. “I don’t need anything from that that place, I’m don’t have any symptoms.” I’ve walked past the store, it’s where Sephora used to be on Bloor Street West. From the outside it looks fine, like a fancy kids’ boutique, but inside all the clothes are for adults. The mentally adjusted variety. The thought of being dressed up like that – the thought of being like that – makes me shudder.

Diane rests her hands on the closed box flaps. “Your bladder doing okay?”

I blink. “Oh yeah, no, for sure.”

She looks down at her hands, says softly, “I heard you last night, Tim. You got up, used the washroom. At least twice.” She looks up. “Was there more?”

“I don’t think so.” I shrug. “Had a lot to drink, that’s all. Doesn’t mean I’m positive.”

“Doesn’t mean you’re negative, eh.” Diane pulls open the cardboard flaps and reveals a thick white pair of underwear.

“Oh hey,” I say, waving my hands in protest. “No way.”

“We must be careful. Haven’t I always looked out for you?”

“I don’t need that! Hey, I know I have to drink lots of fluids, and I’m up for that. But I don’t need the training pants.” I give her the puppy dog eyes. “Diane, let’s not get carried away. It’s not like I’m peeing on the furniture.”

Diane holds the underwear out to me. “I went to Sweeties precisely to get you a pair.”

I take them. There’s no juvenile design on the outside, but there’s something on the inside. Something sparkly, and I blink at it for a few moments. I’m not sure whether they’re made of cotton, polyester, or something else, but I do know that they’re incredibly soft. I stroke the material with my fingers, and then I stretch them out for a moment, testing the elastic waistband.

“Well?” Diane asks.

“You got me Pullups.” I point at the box. “A lot of Pullups.”

Diane rolls her eyes. “I got other things as well.” She blushes. “Just in case.”

I hold the underwear in my hands. They’re comically large, definitely for adults, and must feel absurdly thick to wear. I imagine wearing them, waddling around the apartment like a toddler.

I put them back in the box. “I appreciate you going to all this trouble,” I say, “But I’m not-“

“You have to,” Diane says bluntly. “Tim, they’re special. If you drink lots of fluids and use the underwear-“

“The Pullup.”

“Fine. The Pullup. If you use it, the material soaks up any virus toxins in your urine. You’re basically detoxifying by using it.”

I must look skeptical, because Diane says, “I’ve been doing my research, keeping up to date with things.” She puts her hands on her hips. “So you don’t have to, remember?”

I nod. Keener, I want to say, because I’m still her little brother, but don’t say, because this isn’t a joke.

“Everyone says, this is your best chance at avoiding the virus.” She holds out the chunky underwear. “Tim, if you’re not APP positive, then all that happens is that you wet your pants a few times, and no one’s every going to know. It’s not like we’ll be posting about it online. But if you are APP positive, and if we’ve caught it early enough, then this could stop you from…” She sighs.

“From needing the rest of the stuff in that box,” I finish for her.

Diane nods. I see the tension in her face. She’s always looked out for me, always wanted to keep me safe. If anyone’s up to date with the latest virus guidance, it’s Diane.

I look at my big sister, and I see tears welling in her eyes.

Ah, dammit.

I retrieve the underwear. “I’ll give them a try.”

Diane gulps, as if she’s going to go ahead and burst into tears anyway.

We stand there awkwardly, saying nothing, until I look at the underwear in my hands and say, “You want me to put them on now?”

“Yeah.” She wipes at her eyes. “Thanks.”

I go to the spare room and strip down, taking off my polo shirt, pants and socks, until I’m down to my regular briefs. And then I stand there, naked, and wondering why I felt the need to take everything off, and wondering why I’m feeling as anxious as I am.

Because this is some weird experiment? Because maybe Diane thinks I’m already APP positive, and she’s on the phone to the Center right now?

Come on, Tim, don’t be such a scaredy-cat!

How can putting on a pair of underwear feel like stepping into the unknown? Why does it feel as though I’m taking a giant leap of faith?

My heart thumps in my chest; not just because the clothing is humiliating, but because of everything associated with them. I’m about to wear toddler underwear because of the virus. I’m quarantined because of the virus. There’s a chance I’ll lose my mind because of the damn virus. Even though I don’t feel the slightest bit childish.

I’ve gotten up in the night to pee a bunch of times before last night. Maybe I just have a small bladder!

But these days, careful is good, careful is solid gold. And Diane’s always done her homework.

I pull the underwear up my legs – glad the door is closed, wondering if I could get away without leaving the spare room for the six days – and as soon as I’m wearing the Pullups, I actually feel better instead of worse.

They’re a perfect fit. Much thicker than ordinary underwear of course, and completely infantile, but as Goldilocks might leave in her review, the Pullup isn’t too tight, and it isn’t too loose.

It’s just right.

I look down at myself. Yes, I look silly. But this is official underwear, Center-approved. I’m doing what I’m supposed to do! And there’s something reassuring about that. Something calming. I can feel my heartrate slow down.

Yes. That’s better. I manage a smile. Everything’s going to be okay. My smile gets bigger. What was I so nervous about? This really isn’t a big deal.

And then I remember. The Pullup isn’t just for wearing; it’s for using.

My bladder is already full, the big drink Diane insisted on me having at breakfast. I should’ve used the toilet before putting on the training pants, but she was in such a damn hurry for me the try them on.

“How’s it going in there?” Diane calls from the hall.

I grunt in reply. “Fantastic.” I spend a few absurd seconds trying to pull on my jeans before realizing that’s impossible. I give up on the jeans and then open the door.

Diane’s right there. “Oh, Tim!” she exclaims, her eyes wide.

I feel my face redden. “It’s just underwear,” I grumble.

“It’s much more than that.” She gives me the biggest smile, and then hugs me. “Thank you!”

My blush deepens. We love each other, but I’m not much of a hugger.

I clear my throat. “Thank you for looking out for me.” I pat her back. “As always.”

She takes the hint, steps back. “This really is for the best. And you’re right. It’s just underwear.”

Well, it’s just pissing my pants, actually. But I keep that observation to myself.  I show what I hope is a stoic expression and then tell her, “It’s not like I’m going anywhere. Six days, right?”

Diane wipes at her eyes. “Maybe less. Depends on symptoms. We’ll keep an eye on things.” She nods. “We’d better find you something to wear on top.”

I give a helpless shrug.  “My jeans don’t fit.” I point back towards the spare room. “I’ll put my shirt back on.”

Diane shakes her head, takes my hand and leads me through to the living room.

And that’s when I see the other items my big sister has brought back from her visit to Sweeties.

Baby toys, like plastic blocks and rings. A plush grey elephant. Such items are now littering the living room carpet.

“Diane, what the hell?”

But she’s holding up what looks like a giant onesie. “Pretty cute, eh,” she says.

“I’m not wearing that.”

“Come on, Tim,” she says sweetly, “It’s fun. Besides, do you want to just walk around in your undies? That really would be babyish.”

I give a sulky shake of my head. The onesie is navy blue and has white lettering on the front:

PEACE

LOVE

AND

NAPS

“There’s no way,” I tell her crossly.

Diane gives me a funny look, and then she folds the onesie neatly before putting it back in the box. “Maybe later.”

“Maybe never.” I fold my arms. “I don’t need Sweeties clothes, and I don’t need those toys either. Why did you bring them all out?”

“I was just looking to see what they gave us,” Diane replies. She shrugs lightly. “You don’t want them, you can tidy them up.”

I laugh. “You’re the one who made the mess!”

Diane looks at her phone. “I’ve got a zoom call for work.” She heads towards her bedroom. “You’ll be okay on your own, won’t you?”

It’s a strange question, but we live in strange times.

“Of course,” I say, but gently.

Before she closes her bedroom door, she looks back and says, “Let me know if you need anything.” She smiles. “If you have an emergency.” And then she’s gone, door closed behind her.

Emergency. What, does she want to change me? I look down at myself. I’m stuck in baby underwear because I let my big sister boss me around. She says we have to be careful, but I’m the one making a fool of myself.

My bladder gives me a heavy, tight reminder about what the training pants are for.

I stand on the living room rug, and I tell myself to let go. I’ll get it over with. So the pants can do their job and remove the infection, if there really is one.

But heavy as my bladder is, it’s hard to undo over 20 years of discipline. I was never a bed-wetter, rarely had accidents when I was little. And when I look at the toys and plushies on the floor, I know that I can’t bear to be reminded of those early, dependent and infantile times.

I stride – okay, I waddle – through to the bathroom, and I stand in front of the toilet, ready to pull my training pants down. Because I don’t have to use them.

Just because the doctors say I should.

Just because Diane knows the latest protocols.

I can’t! I can’t just stand there like a stupid baby and wet-

It’s a trickle. A few drops that escape.

My hands hand limply by my sides, and I look down, expecting to see fireworks. Because that’s what I’m feeling between my legs.

I groan with pleasure, and all at once I want to put my thumb in my mouth and finish the job. Because if that’s the feeling from a mere dribble, how will it feel to soak these magical training pants?

I look at myself in the washroom mirror. I can see my top half, and I look normal. No training pants on display, just me. But then I look down, and I can see my special undies, and the wonderful way they make me feel. I push on the front with curious fingers, and I’m rewarded with a further rush of pleasure.

And maybe Diane got the protocols wrong. Or maybe this is just how big boys can feel?

I look back in the mirror, keep my gaze locked on my reflection, and I can examine my expression, how my eyes widen like saucers, how my face tightens in what might be a grimace but is really the opposite, as I let go, soaking my special new underwear. And the fireworks spread, all over my body and then in my head, and I can’t worry about what’s happening, I can’t guess if this is right or wrong. All I know is how good it feels.

I’m in the mirror. I’m not grimacing anymore. I have a happy face. All relaxed and loose, like I’m sleepy and don’t worry about a thing.

My undies really are magic, they keep in all my pee! I wave at my happy face, and then I giggle. I’m being silly, but that’s okay. I’m supposed to be silly.

I think about toys. I think about the fuzzy elephant Diane found in the box. I go through to the living room as fast as I can, which is really fast even though I waddle like a duck, my undies are so chunky and squishy!

I crouch down, nearly fall over but don’t, and I pick up the elephant. It’s soft against my skin, good for cuddling. I love my elephant.

I look down at the toys. I know they’re for me, Diane got them for me special, because she knows I like to play with toys.

I drop the elephant. I’m going to play with the colorful rings…but first I have to tell Diane something important.

I run to her door, and I should knock but I forget, all I can think about is telling my sister the important thing.

I push open the door and run up to her.

“Diane, I weddit! I wet!” I point at my soggy undies. “Look!”

Diane has a funny face, like she’s surprised, and I don’t know why. I only did what she told me to.

“I have to go,” she says. “I’m so sorry.”

That doesn’t make any sense. Where’s she going? But then I see all the faces on her computer screen, and I understand. She’s not talking to me, she’s talking to all the faces. I can’t hear what they’re saying back because she’s wearing her headphones, but I can tell from their mouths that they’re saying a lot.

“I weddit,” I tell Diane again, in case she doesn’t understand.

She takes my hand, squeezes it. “I know you did, Tim, I can see that.” And her voice is gentle, and I’m sure everything is going to be all right.

Even when my soggy undies fall down and now I’m naked.

I put a finger in my mouth. “Oopth.” But it’s okay. I’m only little. I thought I was big but I’m really not. I look at the faces on the screen and I wish I knew what they were saying.

Diane tells them, “I told him to follow protocols, but he was so reckless. I think really it was inevitable. It’s like, I kept telling him, be careful, be careful! I kind of wonder if he was trying to make it happen….”

It’s a lot of words, and I just suck my finger and wait for Diane to stop talking to the faces. So she can clean me up and give me new undies. And then I can show her my elephant, and we can play with my toys. I wait while she talks, I wait for the boring part to be over so the fun can begin.

THE END

Symptom-free Tim is told he's APP + - and is expected to wear diapers, drink from bottles, and attend daycare, all for his own "safety" – Byron

- Didn’t follow this to the letter (still trying to work out the rules in this APP universe) but I tried to be true to its spirit - Sebtomato