Bro Code
All I want - need - to do is pee. The bar is crowded, but I didn’t expect this to extend to the bathroom.
There are three men of descending ages having a confab in front of both urinals. I’ve interrupted something important.
“I...am...just...here...to...pee.”
“Alright, alright, cool,” the Cowboy with the bushy beard - and is the apparent recipient of this particularly inconvenient intervention - said. “But when you’re done, can I ask you for some advice?”
“Sure thing.”
I lock myself in the handicapped stall, unzip, and listen.
“Dude, isn’t that a deal-breaker?” this from the mid-40s guy who when I first entered, was leaned up against the wall, one foot cocked against the porcelain tiles.
“Yeah, you gotta listen to him, bro, you gotta listen,” said the young Hispanic kid, which, as it turns out, is the Cowboy’s best friend.
“She just doesn’t want kids,” the Cowboy said.
I’m 58 years old. I have no children of my own. Well, not biologically.
I inhale deeply, the zest of Clorox and urinal cakes fills my head, zip up and crack my shoulders.
And step out of the stall to wash my hands. All three gentlemen stop the discussion and I can feel three sets of eyes urging me to finish.
So I can give my opinion on this matter.
“OK, so, what’s up?”
“You have kids?” the Cowboy said.
“Yes - and no. I have no children of my own, but my wife has three, a girl and two boys, who I love and cherish as my own.
“So what’s the issue here?”
“My girlfriend and I just moved in together - a big step for us - and I love her and everything, but when it comes right down to it, she doesn’t want kids,” the Cowboy said.
“Deal-breaker, am I right?” mid-40s guy said.
“See man, see man, that’s what we’re talking about,” the Hispanic kid said. “It’s not right. It’s just not right.”
“Well, that all depends. How old are you?”
“Dude, I’m 34 years old,” the Cowboy said.
“Right, right, you’re not getting any younger, man, and if she doesn’t want kids and you do, you gotta start fresh, you gotta start looking for a new relationship,” the Hispanic kid said. “These things, dude, they take time.”
“Help me out here,” the Cowboy said. “What do I do?”
“Is there a chance she’ll change her mind?”
“Well, that’s the thing,” the Cowboy said. “She’s, well, she’s a little thicker than most girls, and she’s worried that she’ll gain a lot of weight and she’ll never be able to lose it.”
“See, right there, that’s no argument, you’d still love her if she was, uh, bigger. Right?” mid-40s guy said. “It’s a deal-breaker.”
Cowboy looks at me, pleading-eyed.
“OK, here’s my situation - I have five siblings, and each has two kids. I’m the only kid in the litter who didn’t have kids. On my bucket list was to father children. Honestly, I think I would have been a great dad. And here’s the thing - I know now that I am a good dad. I love my wife’s kids, unconditionally. And I know they love me unconditionally as well. My time to have our own kids has come and gone - I’m fixed - and I’m OK with that.
“The question you have to ask yourself - are you OK with that? Has your time come and gone? Because if it’s not, then you have to have one very serious fucking conversation coming up with her, sooner rather than later.”
The Cowboy looks down at his boots, contemplating, grasping, for an answer. And that’s when the bathroom door swings open and Gary walks in, surprised at the conference that’s taking place.
“We all thought you fell in,” Gary said, pointing at me. “We all wondered where you went. We ordered for you, by the way, Scotch and soda, no ice.”
“You got kids?” the Cowboy asks Gary.
“I have two, why?” Gary said.
“We’re having an existential crisis here,” mid-40s guy said. “Our man here, well, he wants kids, but his girl - who he’s now living with - doesn’t. Adamant about it, even. Thinks she’ll be less attractive if she gains the baby weight. Thinks he’ll love her less if she’s, uh, bigger. Deal-breaker, am I right?”
“Wow, OK, I really stepped into something,” Gary said.
He goes to the sink.
Washes his hands.
Pulls two paper towels from the dispenser.
Dries his hands.
And turns.
“Here’s my answer: I have two kids. My wife and I have been together for nine years now. When we got together, she had a 19-month-old son. We got married, and we had another son together. But here’s the thing - her first-born carries my name. He is my son. And even if we didn’t have our own, I would have been OK with that, because I love her kid as much as I’ve ever loved anything in my life. This is a question about fatherhood. Would she adopt? Would she be willing to bring in a stranger-baby into your life who isn’t hers? How isn’t yours? There are so many options, but…
“What you have to ask yourself is - what does having kids mean to you? How important is it? Because if it is that important, then, I’m sorry to inform you, you’re with the wrong woman.”
We all nod.
The Cowboy looks around at us, a tired expression on his face. Somewhat defeated.
Defeated or dejected? A little bit of both. But sad. Yeah, sad.
Still, there’s this little glimmer of hope in his wet eyes.
“Only in Wyoming,” mid-40s guy said, shaking his head. “Only in Wyoming can you get this kind of honesty from your best friend - and three complete strangers.”
The Cowboy nods again, then shakes each of our hands.
“I’m headed home,” he said. “Headed home to have one serious-as-shit discussion. Thanks, my bros.”
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