Ass up and Hog WildSubmitted by AllyJeans at 2007-02-17 04:50:52 EST
Rating: 1.96 on 30 ratings (30 reviews) (Review this item) (V)
I like to make faces. So much so that I make them in the shower, in the car, in buses, in trains; when I see babies on the street I stick my tongue out at them, regardless of their comprehension or their parents’ approval. If I’m in a line in the supermarket, I’ll put on my “Why-do-people-like-Dane-Cook” face and stare around wildly, as if I had suddenly become lost, bewildered, and in need of my meds. People usually tolerate this behavior to a certain extent, and I thank them for it. My life is very dull, so every little diversion helps.
But there are faces one shouldn’t make to others. Disturbing faces. I will get to those directly.
Last night Candy was staying over. Her parents hadn’t kicked her out yet, for they seem to be on better meds than I, pills that preserve an unrelenting belief in their taker that their indolent daughter will become rich and successful. This, I dare say, is impossible. A horrible delusion—worse than a pyramid scheme. Worse than putting all your future hopes in Jarndyce and Jarndyce. Worse than thinking you can be witty by making allusions to Dickens. But they don’t see it as a fruitless, her parents. They remain steadfast and continue to fund her wasted life. In fact, they funded the opened beer Candy brought into my house, the tickets to the concert she had seen earlier, the pot she had smoked afterwards—with a guy named “Dave,” and the Dunkin Donuts coffee she would buy me in the morning for letting her sleep it off at my comely apartment.
She arrived at about midnight. I had barely drifted off when I heard the knock at the door, a single knock. Followed by silence, another knock, then a scraping sound—most likely her forehead passing back and forth over the door as she tried to steady herself.. When I opened it, she stumbled in, the beer bottle hanging loosely between two indifferent fingers, her coat draped around her rubbery neck like a scarf. Seeing the predicament, I quickly grabbed the beer, then Candy, having to heft her dead weight from off the floor—where she had collapsed—and whisked them both to the kitchen. There I emptied the beer in the sink and propped my friend in her favorite chair.
Wavering, she told me about her night. I laughed at her recollections—all unintelligible, except for “pot” and “Dave.” When she finished I asked her how she had gotten to my house. “Dave,” she said again, somewhat annoyed at my inane question. I thought about checking her over to make sure Dave had been honorable; but she looked none the worse for the night, except for her condition and her hair, fluffed out like a troll doll.
I put her to bed on my couch, left her a bucket to throw up in, and kissed her forehead, feeling a certain maternal magnanimity. It was a good deed. Good deeds always make me feel cheery. I went to bed. .
That afternoon, I had had lunch at a Mexican restaurant to interview a prospective number-cruncher for a new spot in my department. It was an evil restaurant. All the food was interesting-looking, and the meal I ordered (I won’t mention it here) was the most interesting, having a good amount of rice and beans and jalapenos and something yellow I could not name. Hours later, after Candy had settled in, I woke up feeling the beginnings of a cramp. I was sure it was the yellow acting on me. I cursed the yellow. Then I cursed the milquetoast number-cruncher who had sat with me and ordered a wimpy “ensalada”—the chicken shit. I finished with invectives against my digestive system, which had warned me years before that Mexican food was my curse.
Hunched over, I crept to the bathroom. The pain worsened with each step and I let out a stifled cry as I lurched in I couldn’t sit down quick enough. It shot out immediately, like fire, burning the exit and leaving me half up off the seat, as if the fiery heat originated in the bowl. A furtive look between my legs confirmed my initial suspicions about the culprit. It was an insidious yellow thing. And mostly solid, like I had crapped out a corn cob. The revulsion was instantaneous, and it coincided with another cramp, which nearly threw me back on to the seat.
This is where the other faces come in. I call them the hidden faces, the ones we make when a series of accidents coincide to destroy our appearance. Like when we stub our toe, or find ourselves, mouths agape, staring at the computer screen. So here, in this horribly contorted position, I became aware with my lips pulled back, and my forehead and eyebrows drawn together, and my eyes almost shut that I was taking the biggest, most painful shit of my life and making perhaps the most bizarre face I had ever imagined. I held the look, knowing that I needed to see what lay in the mirror, no matter how hideous. I wiped in haste. Then, feeling done for the moment with my digestive responsibilities, I lifted myself off the seat and waddled carefully to the side. My pajamas were around my ankles and I was feeling around to make sure I didn’t fall.
At this same time, as luck would have it, Candy was up and on her way into the bathroom, head down. Disaster struck. I had forgotten to close the door, and, both unaware of the other or our proximity, we impacted just inside the threshold. She looked at me, startled; and I looked at her, still hunched over, still naked from the waist down, still making that awful face.
She screamed. Screamed loud. Screamed again, then jumped back and banged against the far wall, shaking my rickety diploma and the caricature I had made of my dog on roller skates. I screamed too (from the commotion) and fell backwards, ass and legs in air, my ankles and pajama bottoms coming down on the door handle and getting caught there, like a pig on a spit. Here I remained for a few seconds, forgetting my awkward position and wondering what kind of face I was making. I don’t know what face Candy was making, but she was still shrieking as she watched me, a dim ghost, trying to wiggle her ass off the cold tile and her tethered feet off the handle. Looking to the side, I saw her scamper away on her hands and knees, calling my name. She probably would have left the house if she was in any condition to turn the locks on my front door.
In time I freed myself and calmed her. I told her she had had a very bad dream. That there was no naked ghost haunting my house and that if there were, she would be a lot more graceful. Then I gave her a beer and told her to forget about it.
She’s still suspicious though, and the humiliation is such that I might have to eliminate her should she decide to explore her dream with others. I’ll have to be on guard for a while.