Whenever I emerge triumphant from the bullshit-ed-ness of the domestic affliction known as hiccoughs (a bullshit-ed spelling, if anyone would ever ask me, and they should, because I have like four other ideas), I experience an odd tingle of regret, nostalgia; a misplaced desire for one last indulgence. I adapt quickly but mourn the loss of change. It’s most likely low among the reasons I don’t date. The development of an annoying bodily function, appreciated in its absence after being dominated and dismissed, as an analogy for my significant relationships with women aside, I recently experienced said dilemma from the other end. In other words, I had diarrhea for six days and kind of missed it on the seventh.
Day 1: My last night of work in Colorado. A recycled frozen cake and several sodas are produced as parting gifts, making for a fine lunch between four hour sessions of manual labor. Around 7AM I free myself from the shackles of state tax as a post-coital hummingbird, sans bubble gut. An hour nap is plenty before a High Life and the procurement of a U-Haul and mushroom lamburger with a local chili beer in town. Six hours of loading and several Shiners later, the stir commences…
Day 2: I awake around 3AM for the first session. Its standard, as these experiences go. I’m left a bit dazed and used, but I attribute the feeling more to basic exhaustion than any form of illness. Around 6 I unload my body before loading the rest of the truck, with a PowerAde and nip of vodka to guide me through some basic cleaning. Still empty (physically, to complete the trifecta alongside the daily emotional and spiritual vacuum), I gas up and gas out before procuring a bottle of Pepto for the road. I finish half the bottle and four Gas’n’Sip Sit’n’Shits before reaching the dreaded hotel in Amarillo…
Day 3: It’s getting worse. I calm the dachshund and make it to bed and shit myself in my sleep. I awake with the urgency and brief satisfaction that I’ve caught things just in time, but time is a tricky thing when you believe you’re succumbing to dysentery in a pan-handular discount inn. The mess isn’t quite substantial, but it definitely hit the pants. I muster the minimal effort of sink-washed briefs and tub-cleansed jeans before allowing myself the trust of another nap, face down. Around 7AM I stumble back to the facilities and indulge what has become the standard, a single blast of pond scum. The thermal top no longer clings to my skin. The beard is fuller due to a facial recession. I groggily cling to a barely adequate amount of towel around my declining waist and visit the coin-op washer dryers. There’s no vending machine for soaps, so I grab a bar from the maid’s cart and toss it in. I know I have to eat, so I risk a quick visit to the continental breakfast, assuming guests are towel-ed allowed. The stares are brief, and the toast, eggs, and banana stay down. I struggle through some water and another expulsion before sliding back into cleansed clothes and hitting the road. I should note that the hotel experience was the only time I felt gravely ill. For the most part I’m normal (shut up). No cramps, no fever. Just an infuriating mistrust of my own little butthole. I make the rest of the drive to Mineola, with black-water pop stops every 2-3 hours. The basics are unloaded and another PowerAde (at this point a sponsor of my gradual recovery) is downed as I speed away towards Halloween. I don the lobster shirt and my father’s gray suit that hasn’t fit in the waist since I was under 165 lbs. and hit the pub, hesitant in my exuberance. Several factors now contribute to the oddity within. I make it through the evening long enough to burden a friend’s already struggling toilet with my now expected dilemma…
Day 4: Made it through the night. The morning begins as they’ve began, and I take the belt down a notch before picking up my brother and dropping off a section of mutilated Cosby kids. We make the drive out to Mineola and unload the truck and more and head back to Dallas in the sunset of my accepted fate. I’ll be 30 in less than 3 weeks and dead in less than 2 at this rate. A PowerAde (yes, PowerAde) aids the journey back to N. Dallas and my haunting past. It’s strange to be back, again. Nostalgia and reunions and worry and wants and endless shitting all weigh heavily amidst the blossoming autumn of everything. It’s not meant to be the same, a return to a non-existent routine. The exodus of dark matter and tattered waste from my body, my past in this region, my 20’s, my bullshit indifference and narcissistic self-loathing, is a necessary evil. The metaphor looms. I come to a hint of this understanding as The Boss guides me towards another night of shits and revelry at the pub. I head back to the same friend’s home (fuck it, it’s Charles) and burden his throne again before a night of unrest…
Day 5: I’ve gone, and done it, again. Actually, this one was different. I awake in time to make the bathroom, and am actually standing above the toilet contemplating nausea and the nearly wet dream I was forced out of by a lack of rectal REM. As the upper heaves fade the lower region responds, and the shart escapes. Far humbled by now, I complete the cycle (with real detergent!) and crawl back to a toweled rest of mistrust and shame. Charles awakes early and checks in, noting my embrace of Into the Wild repose. My apologies are waved away, and I slide into a different loose-fitting outfit and battle another day. Tonight, I decide, I’ll just get really drunk. A bit of bar-hopping and fish and fruit sit well before disgracing the home of another friend’s bathroom. Luckily, bath salts absolve the sin and smell of what has become more of a cabbage soup. I’m told that the blackness is a by-product of over-indulgence in Pepto, and am relieved to at the very least dismiss death as impending. The right group of friends accompany a night out which produces little victories such as free shots and dry farts. I get cocky, and it catches up. Beer and whiskey and pancakes and coffee and sausage and syrup are conquered as I celebrate the passage of time and intestinal bacteria. That night, I go a solid 8-10 hours without producing a hint of waste below the waist. I do, however, grace the frequented porcelain god with massive offerings of mouth expulsions. Again, no illness felt. I was barely hungover the next day when the shits returned…
Day 6: It’s just another day. No home, no job, no reason to hope for a timely end to disease. I’ve checked WebMD, and accepted that a doctor’s visit is required. Or is it? After a morning of repeat offenses, I manage a day replete with sushi, basketball, a movie, and steak and potatoes well lacking in unwanted sides of butt stuff. Speaking too soon, as I often do, I awake in the night to old familiar…
Day 7: “They have taken the bridge and the second hall. We have barred the gates but cannot hold them for long. The ground shakes, drums... drums in the deep. We cannot get out. A shadow lurks in the dark. We cannot get out... they are coming.” Acceptance. Understanding. Reflection. Find comfort in this emptiness. There is a why. I’ll go watch Gravity and figure out my life. Who changed all these mirrors? It’s 9PM and I’m drinking beer. It’s familiar, and doesn’t feel right. I’m Kevin Costner on dry land. Lost in a newfangled haze, I skip the realization that I’ve made it since the morning without passage from Australia. Something is out. All things, this too. We lost several rounds, but won overall at trivia. Looms. I retreat to an uninterrupted sleep. I’ve had sex on this couch. I won’t shit it. It’s going to get better now. You can sort of tell these things.
I never saw Charles again. I hear my brother’s married now. PowerAde tastes different, but familiar. Sometimes I think about those shits, when the night comes. I remain, however, vigilant. There’s plenty of life ahead, despite the hiccups (take THAT, England). The shit is always darkest before the dawn. May god bless your hearts.
I miss the beginning of this story…
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