"I don't know if I'm comfortable with this," I told her.

She giggled. "Comfortable with what?" Sara asked, pushing a lock of her auburn hair behind her ears. "My basement?"

"Yes. Well, no, not your basement. It's just fine down here." And it was. The basement was one of those cold, half finished numbers with a linoleum floor and steel pipes running through the floorboards of the ceiling. It was small, just big enough for a big screen television and a wood framed futon. There was a computer desk tucked away into the corner, with a doorway next to it leading to a narrow washer and dryer room. My only gripe with it was that you had to walk all the way up to the second floor to use the only bathroom. Up the stairs and through the kitchen, dining room, living room, up more stairs, then finally reach the bathroom.

It would almost make sense to just piss in the washing machine.

"Then lets just go to bed," she said.

"Did we get all the beer bottles out of the living room upstairs?" I asked, sounding a little too concerned. "I'll go check again."

"Yes," she laughed, grabbing my forearm. "We checked before we came down. Stop acting so ridiculous. You have nothing to worry about, because my parents are going to love you. They're the nicest people ever, so stop being so nervous."

"What time are they getting back tomorrow?"

"9 am," she said.

"I still don't think we should sleep in the same bed tonight."

"Futon," she corrected.

"Right, futon, whatever. I just don't think we should sleep together like this. I don't want to wake up to your father kicking my ass."

"He won't kick your ass, Jason. They've always been okay with boys staying over."

"Do this a lot, then, do you?" I asked with a grin.

"Yeah, but never with anyone so frightened."

"Its my first time meeting your parents, and their getting here tomorrow morning. I'm sleeping with their daughter, in the same bed. They're going to know I've defiled you in their own house, and I'm going to have to say ‘hello! I'm Jason and its nice to meet you!' all the while your dads going to be staring at me with eyes that are picturing what I would look like with his hands around my throat."

"Defiled me? What the hell does that mean?"

"You know...sexually speaking."

"I swear to god you're getting weirder every minute," she said. "I'm not arguing with you anymore about this, and your not going to sleep on the floor or in the bathtub or anything. We've been seeing each other for four months and my parents know all about you. You're going to sleep right here next to me so I can defile you."

Maybe she's right, I thought as we kissed. I'll set my alarm for 8 am and be upstairs and dressed before they even get home. I'll have my teeth brushed and my shoes shined, and ****, maybe I'll even make them breakfast. That's what I'll do: breakfast. They won't know what hit ‘em. I'll make the best goddamn first impression they've ever seen. I'm going to be charming. I'm going to charm the **** out of them.

* * * * * * * * * *

I wake up to footsteps in the small kitchen above me.

Several footsteps.

At first I didn't know where I was. It was one of those times when you wake up and for a heartbeat you're completely lost. A stranger in a strange room that you've never seen in the daytime. The light streaming in through the tiny window high on the wall illuminated a folded out futon with disheveled sheets and scattered pillows. After that initial heartbeat of morning amnesia, I remembered where I was and what I was doing.

My mission.

Operation Charm The **** Out Of The Parents.

Operation C.T.F.O.O.T.P.

Maybe I need a new mission name, I thought, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. Something not so longwinded, but still cool.

Operation Rock Out with **** Out.

Operation R.O.C.O.

I like it: Operation ROCO. It sounds like an actual military mission, like Market Garden.

I looked around the small basement, and realized that I was alone. Above me I heard more footsteps from the kitchen at the top of the basement steps. And voices. Sara's voice and...others.

Older voices.

Oh, sweet mother of god, I thought. Scrambling for my cell phone, I pressed the button on the side to see what time it was.

10:22

Sweet ******* Christ, I overslept.

What the **** happened to breakfast, my mind raced?! I thought I was going to wake up early, get dressed and whip some breakfast up for Mr. and Mrs. Bates. I was going to brush my teeth and shine my shoes. Shine my ******* shoes?! What the **** was that about?! And breakfast? It's closer to ******* lunch now anyway.

And why the **** is Sara up there talking to them? Why didn't she wake me up? I can hear myself asking her that very question in the near future, and her exact response could be heard drifting through the barriers of time:
"You looked so cute just sleeping there, I didn't want to wake you," I could hear her say.

Dear god, what do I do?

Launching myself from the futon with the speed of a cheetah, I leaned over the stairway railing and peeked up the steel-edged basement steps to the closed door at the top, which led to the kitchen and the voices. I heard everything so distinctly then. Three voices: Sara, a mother, and a father. A laugh drifted down the stairs to me from Sara. She had a deeper laugh than you would have thought possible from someone with such a small body. It was cute before, but now it just felt like nails on a chalkboard.

What the **** were they laughing about? I'm down here in a goddamn bomb shelter praying to god for a way out of this battle. Operation ROCO is going down in all the ******* flaming glory of a kamikaze pilot that blew himself up while waiting in line for take off. I can see the little Japanese commander slapping his forehead with a cringe at the blatant stupidity of it. It's too bad I couldn't just time travel to the future and see how I got out of this, but for now its seems as though I'm stuck IN THE ******* PRESENT.

Okay, I thought. Stay calm, stay cool, stay fresh and clean. Operation ROCO isn't dead yet, I thought, looking for my jeans so I could change out of my basketball shorts. I can still charm her parents, even though I didn't have the decency to wake up when they got home.

And where the **** are my jeans?

The image of me changing into my "pajamas" earlier last night in Sara's room upstairs flashed before me, and I saw myself folding the jeans up and laying them on the bag I packed.

****. No pants. Well **** it, I thought. I'll just put my shirt on and-

My shirt.

I stood there shirtless, in all my pasty white glory, scanning the small basement for my t-shirt, but it was gone.

Gone?

Gone.

But where the f-

Another image flashed though my brain, clear and terrifying: Sara putting my shirt on over her tank top because she was cold last night. Sara is still wearing my shirt, talking to her parents.

I'm screwed, I thought. Operation ROCO is a goddamn disaster.

I looked at my clenched fist, gripping my cell phone like it was a ******* hand grenade. I pressed the button on the side again.

10:23

****, my cell!

I flipped it open and called Sara. It rang once, then twice, then-

Buzzzzz...buzzzzz.

I tossed the blankets from the futon around like there was a live snake in it, and Sara's phone fell to the linoleum floor with a clatter, still buzzing that incessant noise. I just stood there, holding my phone in one hand and gripping the edge of the blanket with the other, watching her phone buzz and blink. Mocking me. Mocking my operation.

Operation ROCO.

Stupid name anyway.

This is Bay of Pigs **** now.

Her house phone! If I called it, I'd have a one in three chance of her picking up. I'm pretty sure there's a phone in the kitchen. I'll get a hold of her and tell her everything. First, I'll thank her for not waking me up, then I'll remind her that she's wearing my shirt. She can come down and help.

But what if she doesn't answer? Do I just hang up if mom or dad is at the other end? Do they have caller ID? Will my name show up? Not a very good first impression, calling half naked from their basement and hanging up on them. And even if Sara does pick up, is she going to be smooth enough to play along? Or will she just exclaim: "Jason?! Why are you calling my house from the basement? Just come on up here. My parents have been waiting for you to wake up from a long night of drinking and banging their daughter so they can meet you."

Covert ops isn't exactly her cup of tea.

Stay calm, stay cool. I've been through worse ****, I told myself, flipping my phone shut with a snap.

Thinking about those beers I had last night before bed, I realized that I hadn't gone to the bathroom all night, and now it was a stabbing pain in my side that wouldn't pass until I took care of business. Oh, hey, there's no bathroom down here. That's okay, I'll just piss in my hands and drink it back up until I can get through her parents questioning, you know?

****.

I looked around. There were three empty water bottles lying on the computer desk like little fallen soldiers. They were the super-small kind, one-pint or something like that. And who the **** only wants one pint of water? Sara would ask if I was thirsty and give me one of those. I would drink it in three gulps and wonder just who the **** only wants three gulps of water. It's like making individually wrapped potato chips: thanks but you can go eat ****, cause I'm gonna want more than one, along with the rest of the ******* planet.

Anyway, I could piss in a bottle and fill it up in two heartbeats, try a bottle transfer and probably just end up pissing all over that slick shiny basement floor. Which is about the time Mr. Bates would walk down those steel-edged steps to play on his computer.

"Hi!" I would say, shirtless, standing in a puddle of my own urine, holding two empty water bottles and exactly one pint of my own piss.

"Hi," Sara's father would say, unsure whether or not to descend the last step he paused on when he first saw me.

Not knowing how to continue, I would blurt out. "I was going to make you breakfast."

"Before...or after you pissed all over my basement?" he would ask.

"Before," I would say.

****.

I'm not pissing in three different bottles. I'd probably fill them all up anyway and need something else to go in, and then I'd really be screwed.

More movement upstairs.

Tiptoeing back over to the steps, I leaned over the railing once more and listened. Still three voices talking, laughing. Laughing? What kind of sick fucks are up there laughing? I could picture them sitting in the kitchen around their tall, circular table in those tall, high-backed chairs. Just lounging. Entirely oblivious to the struggle of Operation ROCO, which I now knew was doomed from the very beginning.

But the name was so good, I told myself.

Hitting my phones button, I saw the time.

10:24

Dear God, if you can get me out of this I'll...I don't know. I'll do good things, I swear. I'll stop cursing, drinking and fornicating. I'll stop doing all three at the same time, and you know that's my favorite thing to do, so please, please help me. I'll be good, I swear.

Nothing happened.

****.

My mind raced, fueled by an agonizingly full bladder and an approaching nervous breakdown that was powering towards me like a freight train. Sweet Jesus, what do I do? Waiting for Sara to check on me was always an option, but If I don't get to the bathroom soon I think I might loose control. Damn it, I piss like a bird when I drink, so why didn't I go to the bathroom before bed?

Furiously, I looked around the small, prison cell-like basement. The washer and dryer! Sara always steals my shirts and wears them to bed, so its possible that some of my shirts are in there. Yes, I thought! Just stay calm and the answers will come to you. Your smart, and you've been through worse ****. I opened the door to the laundry room.

The last room.

The only room.

The floor wasn't linoleum, but a cold and unforgiving concrete. My bare feet offered soft patters on the floor and I immediately moved towards the apparently clean and folded clothes on the dryer. My fingers danced through the two piles of laundry with hands quicker than an experienced perverted panty snatcher.

Nothing.

Just a bunch of her fathers dress shirts and whitey-tighties. Flipping through the cabinets above the washer, I rummaged through empty fabric softener boxes and liquid detergent jugs.

Nothing.

Glancing at the pile of freshly folded laundry, I momentarily thought about putting one of Sara's dads dress shirts on. Unfurling a dark blue one, I held it aloft.

The man was a ******* giant.

I could have worn that **** to bed, I thought. Then I briefly pictured myself in the extra large blue button-down shirt that hung down nearly to my knees. Sara would get a kick out of it if I met her parents wearing her dads shirt and no shorts, like Tom Cruise in Risky Business, sliding across the living room floor. Or maybe I can just crunch it up into a ball and piss on it, then hide it behind the washer.

Your not smart -the voice in my head told me- you're a ******* idiot.

Folding the blue shirt up like an autistic Gap employee, I slid it on the bottom of the pile. Opening the washer lid, I looked inside and remembered my thoughts from before about pissing in the washer. I was right then and I'd be right now: its still easier than going all the way upstairs.

Closing the washer, I turned to the back door of the house. Just a few feet away, down that narrow room of concrete, Christmas decorations and forgotten board games, there was a door. A beautiful, wonderful door to the outside, with soft, warm grass and a bright morning sun beyond.

I must tell you, that door was whispering the most delicious words into my ear, like honey it was. Sweet, mouthwatering, sticky honey and I wanted it. I wanted it so bad, I moved to the door, unlocked the knob and the bolt and opened it up. Sara had a small backyard, which ended with a thin little strip of pavement that acts as an alley street. The other side of the street was another small backyard connected to another house. All that stood between me and the fresh air of freedom was a flimsy screen door. Across the way, I could see a middle aged woman mowing her lawn.

How odd, I thought. Doesn't she sense that there's someone down here in distress? How can she be mowing her lawn, acting like she doesn't have a care in the world while I'm down here, waist deep in the crazy ****.

That ******* *****.

Perhaps I should just slip out the door and piss in the grass? Not very subtle, I know, but I've got to take care of this. Squeaking the door open, I was about to walk out when I saw a man walking down the alley street.

****, is that her dad? I'm ******.

But it wasn't. The man was far too small to wear that button-down, monstrous blue Polo shirt.

I can't piss outside, I thought. What if Sara's parents see me, or that ***** mowing the lawn who doesn't care about Operation ROCO. That wouldn't exactly be a good first impression, would it? Pissing on their lawn like a drunk hobo, my shirtless and shoeless body staining their small patch of grassy backyard. Maybe I should just piss through the screen door onto the concrete walkway beyond. Would that even work? And what if someone saw me? That would be so ******* unexplainable, I think I would probably just start punching myself in the face to change the subject.

And where the **** was Sara?

I gripped my phone.

10:26

****.

I should just bolt, open that screen door and take flight like a dog that finally got out of the house. Just run. **** the fact that I'm shirtless and shoeless, that Sara picked me up and my car is an hour away, **** all that. I got my phone, I could get somewhere safe to piss, call one of my roommates and just leave. Sure, that might seem a little weird to Sara, but **** it. She took my shirt and left me down here with no toilet and an open door. I should take off.

I closed the door, locked the knob and turned the bolt.

Operation ROCO was not going as planned.

Noticing a pile of dirty laundry in a green basket on the floor next to the dryer, I rummaged through it.

More of Mr. fucking-Bates' clothes, but this time it was his white undershirts and pants. Pulling a white Hanes tee from the basket, I looked at it, then threw it on. It was ******* massive, just like the blue buttoned-down. Turning around, I looked for a mirror, but there was nothing, just a few cardboard boxes stacked on top of each other and-

Oh ****. Is that...a ******* knife case?

It was. A dark wood display case with glass doors, and about a dozen knives hung ceremoniously behind the glass. And not just knives, but real ******* big knives, shiny and sharp, as long as my arm.

What kind of a sick fucko collects knives?

If I don't piss soon, I'm gonna wet my shorts.

And where the **** is Sara?

Oh, god I'm pissing myself. No, wait, not yet, but soon.

I'm ******.

Why cant I just run up there shirtless, flip all three the bird as I move past, then climb her steps in two bounds and piss for ten minutes?

Because your not an *******.

You have to meet her parents correctly, my mind told me. She's a great girl and you might have a long relationship with the family. You should have planned this better.

I did have a ******* plan, remember? Operation ROCO? Breakfast, shoe shinning, all that ****?

All I have upstairs are sneakers. Why the **** do I keep mentioning shoe shinning?

"Jason?" Sara's voice spoke from the other room with the futon.

I pissed myself a little. I felt like someone startled me while I was singing in the shower.

"Yeah?" I said.

"WHERE THE **** HAVE YOU BEEN?!" my mind screamed.

"Jason...is that my dads shirt?"

"Yeah," I said softly.

"You look stupid, and I think its dirty. What are you doing down here?"

I looked down, and she was right on both accounts. The shirt was filthy, and I indeed looked quite stupid.

"Operation ROCO," I replied. "And I'm pretty sure that shirt your wearing doesn't ******* belong to you either."

She shook her head with confusion. "My parents aren't getting home till noon," she said, walking away from the laundry room. "So, come upstairs and I can make you a bagel or something."

"What?" I asked, the words dripping with venom. "Who were you talking to up there?"

She turned, giving me a look smart people reserve for the stupid. "My older sister and her boyfriend," she said, and walked up the steel-edge steps.

I thought about running up those same steps, bowling her over and reaching the second floor bathroom in record time. Her ******* sister, I thought?

Opening the washers lid, I urinated in it.

Operation ROCO wasn't a total disaster.