The Traffic Incident
Or: The Day I Learned That Dignity Is Not a Given
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
By Mason Absher
ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD
I need to tell you about the worst moment of my adult life.
Not the most tragic.
Not the most consequential.
The worst.
The most humiliating.
The most degrading.
The moment that taught me—with absolute clarity—
that I am not special.
That I am not exempt from the laws of biology.
That dignity is not a right.
It's a privilege.
And sometimes—
sometimes—
you lose it.
Completely.
In traffic.
On I-65.
At 2:47 PM on a Thursday.
THE SETUP
March 2017.
I had an audition.
A real one.
Not community theater.
Not a student film.
A regional theater audition.
Paid.
Equity.
The kind of audition that could change things.
[Beat.]
The audition was at 4 PM.
In Indianapolis.
I lived an hour away.
Which meant I needed to leave by 2:30 at the latest.
I left at 2:15.
Plenty of time.
THE MISTAKE
Before I left, I made a decision.
A seemingly innocuous decision.
A decision that would define the next three hours of my life.
[Beat.]
I drank a large Diet Coke.
Not just drank it.
Chugged it.
Because I was nervous.
And when I'm nervous, I drink things.
Compulsively.
It gives me something to do with my hands.
With my anxiety.
[Beat.]
32 ounces.
Of Diet Coke.
At 2:10 PM.
Right before getting in my car for an hour-long drive.
[Long beat.]
I'm an idiot.
THE DRIVE BEGINS
I got on I-65 North.
Heading toward Indianapolis.
Traffic was fine.
Weather was fine.
I was making good time.
[Beat.]
At 2:35 PM, I felt the first twinge.
Not urgent.
Just... awareness.
The kind that says:
"Hey. Remember that 32 ounces of liquid you just consumed?"
"Your bladder remembers."
I thought: I'll be fine. I can hold it for an hour.
[Beat.]
This was hubris.
THE TRAFFIC
At 2:42 PM, traffic slowed.
Not stopped.
Just... slowed.
From 70 mph to about 40.
Then 30.
Then 20.
[Beat.]
I turned on the radio.
Traffic report:
"Accident on I-65 North near mile marker 114. Expect delays."
Mile marker 114.
I was at mile marker 108.
[Beat.]
I needed to get to mile marker 125.
And there was an accident at 114.
And I was at 108.
And I had to pee.
THE CALCULATION
I did the math.
6 miles to the accident.
Then however long to get past it.
Then 11 miles to my exit.
At 20 mph?
That's... I don't know.
I'm not good at math when I'm panicking.
But it's too long.
[Beat.]
I looked at the clock: 2:47 PM.
I looked at my GPS: Arrival time 4:23 PM.
4:23 PM.
I needed to be there at 4:00.
[Beat.]
And I needed a bathroom.
Immediately.
THE HOPE
I thought: There will be a rest stop.
There has to be a rest stop.
This is a major highway.
[Beat.]
I checked the signs.
Next rest area: 23 miles.
23 miles.
At current speed?
That's... again, I don't know.
But it's too long.
Way too long.
[He stands, pacing now.]
I thought: I'll get off at the next exit.
Find a gas station.
[Beat.]
Next exit: 4 miles.
Okay.
4 miles.
I can do 4 miles.
THE TRAFFIC STOPS
At 2:53 PM, traffic stopped.
Not slowed.
Stopped.
Complete standstill.
[Beat.]
I sat there.
Engine idling.
Surrounded by cars.
Trapped.
[Beat.]
And I really had to pee now.
Not "this is uncomfortable."
Not "I should find a bathroom soon."
Urgent.
Painful.
All-consuming.
THE PANIC
I turned off the radio.
Couldn't focus.
Couldn't think about anything except my bladder.
[Beat.]
I looked around.
Cars on both sides.
Cars in front.
Cars behind.
No shoulder to pull onto.
Nowhere to go.
Nowhere.
[He sits, tense.]
I thought: I could get out and walk into the woods.
The highway was lined with trees.
But to get there, I'd have to:
Get out of my car
Leave it running (or risk not being able to move when traffic started)
Cross multiple lanes of stopped traffic
Climb over a barrier
Run into the woods
Pee in front of hundreds of people stuck in traffic
[Beat.]
This was not viable.
THE BARGAINING
I started bargaining.
With God.
With the universe.
With my own bladder.
[Beat.]
"Please. Please just let traffic move."
"I'll never drink anything before a drive again."
"I'll plan better."
"I'll be a better person."
[Beat.]
Traffic did not move.
THE CONSIDERATION
At 3:04 PM, I started considering options.
Option 1: Pee in a bottle.
I looked around my car.
No bottles.
No cups.
Nothing.
I'd cleaned my car that morning because I was going to an audition and wanted to feel professional.
Irony.
Option 2: Call and cancel.
Tell them I couldn't make it.
Reschedule.
But this was a callback.
You don't reschedule callbacks.
You show up.
Option 3: Hold it.
Just... hold it.
Somehow.
[Long beat.]
I chose Option 3.
THE FAILURE
At 3:11 PM, I knew I was in trouble.
Real trouble.
The kind of trouble where your body stops listening to your brain.
Where biology overrides will.
Where you realize—with absolute clarity—
you are not in control.
[Beat.]
I tried everything.
I tried thinking about other things.
I tried breathing exercises.
I tried pressing on my stomach. (Don't do this. It makes it worse.)
[Beat.]
Nothing worked.
THE MOMENT
At 3:14 PM—
[Long pause. He looks at the audience.]
I peed.
[Beat.]
Not intentionally.
Not as a choice.
Just... biologically.
My body said: "We're done here."
And it happened.
[He sits, quietly devastated.]
I peed myself.
In my car.
On I-65.
Stuck in traffic.
On the way to an audition.
At age 34.
THE AFTERMATH
The warmth spread.
The horror spread faster.
[Beat.]
I sat there.
In my own urine.
In my car.
Surrounded by hundreds of other cars.
All of us stopped.
All of us waiting.
[Beat.]
But only me—
only me—
sitting in my own piss.
THE REALIZATION
Here's what I thought:
This is who I am.
This is what I've become.
A grown man.
Who peed himself.
In traffic.
On the way to an audition for a job he won't get.
[Beat.]
And then—
and then—
traffic started moving.
[He looks up.]
Of course it did.
Of course.
Three minutes after I'd lost all control.
After I'd surrendered to biology.
After I'd accepted my fate as a man sitting in wet pants.
Traffic started moving.
THE DECISION
I had a choice.
Go home.
Change.
Miss the audition.
Or—
Or—
Keep driving.
Show up to the audition.
In pee-soaked pants.
And try to act like a professional.
[Long beat.]
I kept driving.
THE ARRIVAL
I got to the theater at 3:47 PM.
13 minutes early.
[Beat.]
I parked in the back of the lot.
Far from everyone.
Got out.
The cold air hit the wet fabric.
Horrible.
[Beat.]
I had a jacket.
A blazer I'd brought to look professional.
I tied it around my waist.
Like a teenager in a '90s sitcom who got her period at school.
[Beat.]
And I walked in.
THE AUDITION
I signed in.
The stage manager—a woman in her twenties—looked at me.
"Orson?"
"Yes."
"You're early. Great. You can wait over there."
[Beat.]
I sat.
In a folding chair.
In the hallway.
In my pee-soaked pants.
Jacket tied around my waist.
[Beat.]
Other actors arrived.
All of them dry.
All of them dignified.
All of them unaware that I was sitting there in my own filth.
THE PERFORMANCE
They called my name.
I walked into the room.
Jacket still tied around my waist.
[Beat.]
There were three people behind a table.
Director. Casting director. Producer.
They looked at me.
I looked at them.
"Orson McSeinfeld?" the director said.
"Yes."
"Whenever you're ready."
[Beat.]
I performed my monologue.
I don't remember what it was.
I don't remember how I did.
I just remember:
The wet fabric against my legs
The smell
The shame
[Beat.]
I finished.
They said "Thank you."
I said "Thank you."
I left.
THE DRIVE HOME
I got back in my car.
Sat on the wet seat.
And drove home.
[Beat.]
I didn't cry.
I didn't scream.
I just... drove.
[Beat.]
In silence.
In my own urine.
Thinking about choices.
About hubris.
About the 32 ounces of Diet Coke I'd chugged at 2:10 PM.
THE CLEANUP
I got home.
Threw my pants directly in the trash.
Not the laundry.
The trash.
They were gone.
They needed to be gone.
[Beat.]
Took a shower.
A long one.
The kind where you're not just washing your body.
You're trying to wash away the memory.
[Beat.]
It didn't work.
THE CALLBACK
I didn't get the part.
Obviously.
They sent a form email three days later.
"Thank you for auditioning. We've decided to go in a different direction."
[Beat.]
A different direction.
Probably a drier direction.
THE LESSON
What did I learn?
Lesson 1: Biology always wins.
You can will yourself to do many things. You cannot will yourself to indefinitely hold 32 ounces of liquid in a finite bladder.
Lesson 2: Pride comes before the pee.
I thought I was above this. I thought I could handle it. I was wrong.
Lesson 3: Plan ahead.
Don't drink a large anything before a drive. Just don't.
Lesson 4: Sometimes the universe is cruel.
Traffic moving three minutes after you pee yourself is not coincidence. It's cosmic mockery.
Lesson 5: Dignity is fragile.
You can lose it in an instant. And you can't get it back.
Lesson 6: Tell no one.
I told no one about this. Until now. Because some shame is private. Until it becomes a story.
THE CONFESSION
So now you know.
My worst moment.
The time I—a grown adult—
peed myself.
In traffic.
On the way to an audition.
And then went to the audition anyway.
[Beat.]
Why am I telling you this?
Because it's true.
Because it happened.
Because I spent years trying to forget it.
Trying to bury it.
Trying to pretend it never occurred.
[Beat.]
But it did.
And pretending otherwise is exhausting.
THE ACCEPTANCE
I am Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld.
Actor. Writer. Observer of storefronts.
And on March 16th, 2017—
I peed myself in traffic.
[Beat.]
It doesn't define me.
But it's part of me.
Part of my story.
The part I don't tell people at parties.
The part I don't put on my résumé.
[Beat.]
But it's real.
As real as anything else.
As real as the Beef Manhattan.
As real as my love for Wawa.
As real as the formative adventure at Phar-Mor.
Real.
THE WARNING
So this is my warning to you:
Plan ahead.
Don't drink 32 ounces of anything before a drive.
Know where the rest stops are.
Always have a bottle in your car.
[Beat.]
Because biology doesn't care about your audition.
About your schedule.
About your dignity.
[Beat.]
Biology will humble you.
On I-65.
At 3:14 PM.
When you least expect it.
When you most need to maintain control.
THE ENDING
I still drive I-65 sometimes.
Past mile marker 114.
Where the accident was.
Where traffic stopped.
Where I stopped being someone who had never peed himself in a car.
[Beat.]
And I think:
Some moments change you.
Not for the better.
Not for the worse.
Just... change you.
[Long beat.]
I am changed.
I am a person who knows—absolutely—
that control is an illusion.
That preparation only goes so far.
That sometimes—
sometimes—
you just pee yourself.
[Beat.]
And you survive anyway.
End Transmission.
(Orson exits. Somewhere, on I-65, traffic moves. Somewhere, someone else is drinking a large Diet Coke before a drive. Somewhere, biology is waiting. Patiently. Inevitably. To teach the same lesson Orson learned. You are not special. You are not exempt. And dignity? Dignity is something you have. Until you don't.)