Random Rants On Life & Stuff

Back by popular demand…
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This is a true story. The events depicted took place in Washington in 1999. 
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It was a cold winter evening, I had been seeing someone for a few weeks and she had invited me up to her parent’s house to have dinner. I was living on the far north-west side of Spokane and Sara’s parents lived way out on the south-east side of the valley.

I’ll start out by saying: I’m not a huge eater. I’m not one of those guys with the metabolism of five-junior high boys who can eat three helpings of dinner plus whatever is left on the plates of those around him. Maybe I was too complimentary of the meal that night so Sara’s mom just kept dishing it up. She continued to pour milk into my glass each time I emptied it. This wasn’t non-fat or 1%…. I’m fairly certain it was whole, because by the time I slogged away from the table my previously clear venti-size glass now appeared to be made of ceramic as it was stained white.

Each time I would clear my plate Sara’s mom would slide over another slice of quiche. She also refilled my glass of milk each time it was empty. We continued to talk and I cleared my plate yet again, and was saying how great it was, and that I was stuffed and all, but apparently she wasn’t getting the hint that I was full. She placed yet another slice of quiche on my plate and filled my glass yet again with milk.

Don’t get me wrong, the quiche was good – as far as quiche goes. And I know I was trying to make a good impression because I liked Sara a lot. However, if you add up the amount of dairy I consumed in this single sitting it’s enough to make you start to taste the sweet-and-tangy at the back of your mouth.

I know for a fact it was the second slice of quiche with yet another ginormous-glass of milk that would later cause my stomach to bloat in a manner that could only be described as freakish; (think of a basketball player who falls and badly sprains his ankle, what would you say if said player were to attempt to take off his shoe?) and without a doubt it was the third slice (which I could barely eat half of) and the additional glass of milk (which I did in fact finish) that brought the worst case of “acid-rain” I had ever experienced in my life.

I digress…

I remember clearing the table and realizing that something was not quite right inside of me. I started to feel hot and clammy – and no this was not due to the fact that I was with Sara – this was most definitely the quiche (and the bucket of milk I had ingested) talking.

Sara and I had decided to watch a movie after dinner so after we cleared the dishes we made our way to the TV. Leaving the kitchen we passed a bathroom. I remember thinking, note to self… We walked up about 6 steps to find ourselves in the bonus room above the garage. We got situated on the couch and started the movie.

About forty-five-minutes into the flick I found it increasingly difficult to sit upright. The pain was sharp, constant, and increasing in intensity. (Imagine a dozen knives which have been lying in molten lava and were now twisting and carving their way from my waist into my chest.) My forehead broke out in a sweat and I began to clench my teeth all the while trying my best to remain expressionless. I remember thinking to myself, I’m going to start making strange sounds if I don’t get this pain to stop. As I adjusted my position on the couch I found if I slouched the “molten knives” stopped twisting. The further I slouched the better I felt, but any attempt to return to an upright position caused the stabbing pains of angry-dairy to return.

I need to lie down; if I can just lie down I know I will feel better. Seeing as I’ve slouched myself parallel with the floor it would be better to just keep going rather than remain in this strange position.
From my new vantage point, I now noticed Skip-Bo tucked under the TV stand. I suggested we shut the movie off and play the card game instead. Did I want to play Skipbo? No. I wanted any excuse to lie down on the floor and get some relief. As soon as I lay down the pain subsided but I noticed my pants were now very, very tight. Not only was I apparently swelling from the inside out, I also realized I had to find a bathroom NOW! The acid-rain cometh…

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acid rain: a raging and sudden bout of diarrhea
My good friend Joel and I call it acid-rain (PA-Joel, not philosopher-Joel… although after sharing this story with philosopher-Joel he, too, calls it acid-rain… actually I think it was my high school friend Brad who coined the phrase… either way, we all call it acid-rain) Acid-rain doesn’t come often – unless you have IBS or something like that. Acid-rain is such a fierce offense to your system you can actually feel it moving through you and like race against time you are desperate to get to the bathroom. As the first “front” of the “storm” barrels its way through your body, you realize that it cannot be stopped by any previously known stalling tactics. There is no waiting until it is convenient to go, the clench won’t even buy you much time. It is fast, furious, unstoppable and is rarely resolved in just… how shall I say… one sitting. What I’m saying is that once the first “front” passes you can actually feel the second front building and beginning its approach. Then there is the anxiety of wondering how many “fronts” there will be. I have only had a few bouts of acid-rain in my life, but as you most likely already know, they are not easily forgotten.

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I excused myself for the bathroom, barely able to get up off the floor without wincing in pain. As I eased myself to my knees and then to a standing position; my pants were so tight. I was swelling up with gas, apparently created from the angry-dairy that was now waging war inside of me.

What is going on?!

Walking down the short run of stairs I waddled ever so carefully into the bathroom. I quickly determined there was no way I was using this bathroom. The door was one of those wannabe-doors that slides closed and weighs all of about two-pounds. It didn’t even come close to meeting the floor as there was a two-and-a-half inch gap… I could have driven a Stomper through it. I was going to need more “shelter” than this bathroom was able to provide. No time… there is no time to find another bathroom. I took a chance and decided to venture to the other side of the house. Sara’s mom had left after dinner and her father was away on business so as far as I knew there was no one else around. I quickly moved through the house and found a bathroom back by the bedrooms. It was big and there was a fan directly above the toilet, plus there was a window. It was perfect and it was none too soon. The first “front” of the storm had arrived and there was nothing else that could be done but to brace for first front to pass…

Let’s just say it was bad. I wished I was home. I wished that I did not have the long drive back to the house. I was sick. VERY sick. While I found some relief afterward… I knew there would be more. The second “front” had been detected and I had no idea how much time I had before I would need to seek “shelter” again. I decided it was late enough and I should just call it a night.

The details on what happened between leaving the bathroom on the other side of the house and leaving Sara’s house are vague at best. It was a “leave your shoes at the door” kind of place; so, thanking Sara for a great evening, I painfully bent down to get my boots (which I now wished I had not worn); the boots had six-eyelets that needed to be hooked in order to lace them up. It hurt too much to bed over and put my boots on. (PEPOLE THIS IS HOW BAD IT WAS!!! I COULDN’T PUT ON MY SHOES THE PAIN WAS THAT BAD!!) Thankfully it was dark in the entry way of the house. I held the laces in my hands and frantically moved them against my boots hoping they would hook on something – all the while casually carrying on a conversation with Sara. If the lights had been any brighter in the entry way she would have thought I was having a seizure from the elbows down.

Walking to my car I looked back to see Sara standing in the doorway waiting to watch me drive away. I continued to walk as normally as possible, but could feel my haphazard lace-up job coming undone. My boots started to fall off so I casually moved into a shuffle of sorts as I slid my feet across the dirt driveway. All I wanted to do was lay down; and since lying down in the driveway isn’t an option, I had to fain normalcy as the angry-dairy’s molten-hot-daggers of gaseous pain rammed their razor tips into my gut. Now I had the daunting task of actually sitting down again. My car sat low to the ground so I knew if sitting on the couch to watch a movie was an issue than sitting in my car was going to pose some interesting challenges. Looking over the roof of the car, I smiled and wave goodbye to Sara and forced myself down into the driver’s seat.

HOLY CRAP THIS HURTS! I just needed to drive out of Sara’s line of sight so I can figure out how to get comfortable to drive the rest of the way home.

Starting the car I eased out of the driveway and down the road. I made it down the first switchback and stopped the car. The house was out of sight and there were no other homes on the hill, it was just me, the angry-dairy and the forest. I found that if I completely laid the seat back I could be comfortable. This was great news; however, it is difficult to see the road from this position. (If I pulled myself forward – with my hands at ten-and-two on the steering wheel – I had some relief but it was hard to drive with your full body weight on the wheel.) So there I lay in my car, in the middle of the woods, not sure how long it was going to take me to get home.

The second front began to move… it was a ways off… I should have time to make it back to the house…
Verifying that indeed I was the only one around, I decide to get out of the car and take a leak. (It’s the middle of the night, no one is around, it’s not a big deal…) What was a big deal was the fact that I couldn’t fasten my pants again. My stomach had bloated from its normal 32-inches to around 35 inches or so. What on earth? I ended up using my belt to cinch on my pants and I left my shirt un-tucked to cover my gaping fly. Rolling my eyes – half out of disgust and the other half in disbelief – I made the painful attempt of getting back into my car to continue the drive home.

Over the next thirty-minutes I drove about three or four miles, pulling over about every 2000 feet or so to give into the demands of Angry Dairy (it had become its own entity at this point) and lay back the seat for a reprieve. I was about to pull over again when I saw a gas station sign up the road about a ½ mile. Driving well over the speed limit on the deserted road I rocketed towards my late night oasis only to discover it was a mirage… it was closed. I pulled up and parked in front of the pay phone. Shutting the car off, I kicked the seat back, my breathing growing heavy, I pondered what I should do. It was late.

Do I call someone to come and get me? Can I make it to a gas station that is in fact open at this time of night before the second front hits? Why did Sara’s have to live in the valley? What if I can’t find a gas station in time? What if I can’t find a bathroom in time? What then? [Panic sets in.]

That is when it happened. The sweet-and-tangy appeared at the back of my mouth and I had seconds to get the door of my car open before I violently vomited onto the parking lot. I puked five-times in a row and each time I was reminded that it was in fact whole and not non-fat. I spit a few times, shut my car door and lay back in my seat; sweating, shivering and continuing to expand. Lying there, staring at the pay phone I thought about calling my friend Laurie to see if I could recover at her place as her house was closest one I could think of.

Her house is certainly closer than mine, but how do you call someone and ask them if you can be sick at their house? No. That’s not an option. Should I call an ambulance? No. Now that is ridiculous. Well, I can’t just lay here.

The shivering-chills became more intense; I wiped the sweat from my brow, and started the car. I clearly remember turning my headlights on to back out of my parking space to find a reflective sign bolted to the building which read: “Area under video surveillance”.

Driving down the road again, the second-front was approaching with increasing intensity. I did not have much time. To deal with the pain, I just focused on my breathing and clenched my jaw. Must find a gas station! Panning and scanning I looked up and down both sides of the street only to find closed business after closed business…

HI-CO? I see the HI-CO Gas Station/Mini-Mart… they’re open!

The copper roof was like a beacon of hope waving me in for a landing. I believe I carefully ran a red light, pulled into the only open parking space and got out of the car like a crazy man on a mission. I quickly checked to be sure my shirt properly concealed the fact that my pants were only being held up by my belt.

Fly of pants covered?
CHECK.
Sweat wiped from forehead?
CHECK.
Catching myself in the side mirror of a parked truck I confirmed that I now not only felt sick but looked it, too. Pushing the doors of the mini-mart open I must have had the look of a frantic man in need of assistance, because the person at the counter looked up with a smile to acknowledge me from across the room, but his welcoming face quickly faded to a look of, What on earth…?“BATHROOM,” I stated emphatically.

Maintaining eye contact he points to his right, my left. In what can only be described as the walk-to-run form of the T-2000 in Terminator II, I followed his direction in a deliberate yet quickening pace. The second front was here… time was of the essence. I marched through a food court seating area where there was laughter and banter of late night teenagers. Silence fell over the room as made my approach. In my peripheral vision I could see that I was not blending in, so to speak. No matter, I would not be distracted from my goal which was now clearly within my sight. “MENSROOM” the sign read and I broke into a very awkward run, shoelaces untied, snapping and flapping all over the place, shirt flying back to reveal my pants tethered to my waist. I could really care less at this point.

Second front… so close… must hold on… must make it twenty more feet.

Ten more feet…

I had found sanctuary. Sure, it was a single occupancy men’s room in a gas station, but I could finally contain the storm safely. Throwing the door open, and with the second front on my heels, I pushed it shut, locked it, removed my coat, threw it on the floor as I bolted for the toilet. At least my pants are half undone, I remember thinking to myself… and that is when I saw what I can only be described as some cruel joke (or the perfect comedy). Taped to the seat of the only toilet in the men’s room was a handwritten note: “OUT OF ORDER”.

SHUT-UP.

My pants are off and I’m frantically looking around the room for other options. I have a sink, a urinal and trash bin. I said out loud, as if I was talking to someone who was responsible for the bathrooms, “Sorry man”. I threw the seat up, sat down and with the force of an F5 (on the acid rain scale) it was here. It was worse than the case I had a Sara’s… much worse. It was so bad in fact that I believe I had my eyes closed. I remember this because I had to open them to find the trash bin… with perfect timing I got up, grabbed the trash bin pulled it over to the toilet, sat back down, and with the trash bin now between my knees, I pulled the lid off and threw it onto the floor, and then began to vomit into it all the while dealing with Front #2. This process continued off-and-on for about ten-minutes.

When it was all over I sat there feeling much better, but totally exhausted. Not only did itstill hurt to sit upright other parts of me were hurting now. Staring at the floor, and still with chills and a cold sweat on my face, I reached over with my left hand to find the toilet-paper dispenser… I stopped breathing for a moment… my hand made out the distinct shape of a cardboard tube. I turned to confirm what I was quite sure I already knew: There was no toilet paper; the dispenser was empty.

This is the part of the movie where the camera would look down on me from the ceiling and I would look directly into the lens and scream out loud in utter-horror as the camera pulls back to reveal the entire bathroom with me, sitting on the toilet, trash can in front of me, lid on the floor, coat on the floor… alone… trapped in my “cell” in unbelief at the series of events that had transpired this night.  Of course this wasn’t a movie and I didn’t scream, I did however say, “You’ve got to be kidding me”. Shaking my head I approached the paper towel dispenser. I gave the handle a couple pulls to find coarse brown post-consumer recycled sandpaper. My only consolation was the fact that this night was sure to make for a great story to retell.