When something bad announces itself, you try to imagine how awful it could get, and you prepare yourself for that. Worst case scenario, I thought as I rode the J train to Cafe Moto, is that I arrive there first, empty my belly, then wait for her at a table in perfect composure. I was early, after all. Forty-five minutes later, I was slumped on the cracked-tile floor of the restaurant’s arte povera, 1930s-era bathroom, retching into the toilet and ignoring multiple calls from the girl I was supposed to be meeting for a first date. I can’t stay here, I thought.
What did I eat? I pressed the flush handle on the ceiling-height tank and stepped outside the bathroom. And there she was, Ricki from NYU, sitting on a bench right outside the slatted wooden wall into which my droopy lips had just groaned without inhibition.
She was glossy, smiling, wearing pearls and a short black skirt. I looked like a sleeping trout. I straightened my collar, ran a hand over my hair and tentatively returned her hug. She reassured me with charm and sympathy. From the grace she was giving off, you’d think I’d just showed up at her dad’s house in a tuxedo and gestured outside to my new blue coupe. We walked up from the basement to take our table.
As our conversation meandered casually along, in my panic I was rushing the words out so I could hurry up and expel what surged behind them. “Right, just like the users of that software,” I said. “The programmers might be making certain choices without understanding the ideologies behind them. I’ll be right back, Ricki.”
Hurry down cement stairs, whack the door bolt, heave up a splashing brown gout of belly juice. Then turn the faucet handles and toss water on my white haggard face, which I saw in the thin trapezoid of mirror.
It was becoming a Darren Aronofsky-esque montage which ended each time with me slowly returning to Ricki wearing a smile on my face. “So, is it like a stomach thing, or uh, is it nausea?” she asked, with no apparent bias other than curiosity.
“What’s the difference?” I asked. “Well, are you throwing up?” Ohhh, she thought I might have been crapping. And still she was unfazed! This may be a blessing in disguise, I thought. I once had a girlfriend who hid from me when I was sick, who was afraid to go camping or break the law. Uptight personalities don’t agree with my spasmodic behavior patterns, so tonight’s date could be a great pre-intimacy test. She who is down for puking is down for whatever.
The food arrived at our table then, like a beetle grub delivered into my stomach. Ricki talked to me about Israel and Palestine, local music and her badly diseased cat. Meanwhile a lanky man in suspenders and a newsboy hat, his knees jutting up to his elbows, led an acoustic band near our table. His mouth was working like a claymation singer’s. Frosty air flashed at me as people passed through the front door. Every violation of quiet and stillness—including Ricki’s innocent conversation prompts—was twisting my guts. “Did you see Into the Wild?” Ricki asked.The last straw—I hated that movie.
I help up a finger and slid out of the booth. Another stairs-door-splash montage.Then another. Ricki practically ignored them; she laughed openly at my grimacing self-deprecation, waited patiently when I shambled to a nearby deli for pink stuff.When she went to the bathroom twice, I half-suspected that she was trying to make me feel better.
After dinner I walked her home, chewing half a pack of mint gum. Ricki hooked my arm to support herself on the ice as her high heels threatened to give.We arrived at her stoop and hugged, performing kind of serpentine motions with our faces.
I fumbled sheepishly. “I want to kiss you, but, you know, the time before, the bathroom time...I had gum though…” At that moment, she clapped her hands on my cheeks and planted a long one right on me.
What did I eat? I pressed the flush handle on the ceiling-height tank and stepped outside the bathroom. And there she was, Ricki from NYU, sitting on a bench right outside the slatted wooden wall into which my droopy lips had just groaned without inhibition.
She was glossy, smiling, wearing pearls and a short black skirt. I looked like a sleeping trout. I straightened my collar, ran a hand over my hair and tentatively returned her hug. She reassured me with charm and sympathy. From the grace she was giving off, you’d think I’d just showed up at her dad’s house in a tuxedo and gestured outside to my new blue coupe. We walked up from the basement to take our table.
“Kind of cuts right through to the personal,” she said. “Don’t you think?” I ordered a Coke to settle my stomach, and we got to talking. Ricki was a grad student studying the philosophical and sociological implications of various music-recording technologies. I listened closely, wondering what her hipbone looked like in the reclining position. But slowly, deniably then undeniably, like the drunk actor who wouldn’t be kept off stage, that gurgling sick was swelling up again.
As our conversation meandered casually along, in my panic I was rushing the words out so I could hurry up and expel what surged behind them. “Right, just like the users of that software,” I said. “The programmers might be making certain choices without understanding the ideologies behind them. I’ll be right back, Ricki.”
Hurry down cement stairs, whack the door bolt, heave up a splashing brown gout of belly juice. Then turn the faucet handles and toss water on my white haggard face, which I saw in the thin trapezoid of mirror.
It was becoming a Darren Aronofsky-esque montage which ended each time with me slowly returning to Ricki wearing a smile on my face. “So, is it like a stomach thing, or uh, is it nausea?” she asked, with no apparent bias other than curiosity.
“What’s the difference?” I asked. “Well, are you throwing up?” Ohhh, she thought I might have been crapping. And still she was unfazed! This may be a blessing in disguise, I thought. I once had a girlfriend who hid from me when I was sick, who was afraid to go camping or break the law. Uptight personalities don’t agree with my spasmodic behavior patterns, so tonight’s date could be a great pre-intimacy test. She who is down for puking is down for whatever.
The food arrived at our table then, like a beetle grub delivered into my stomach. Ricki talked to me about Israel and Palestine, local music and her badly diseased cat. Meanwhile a lanky man in suspenders and a newsboy hat, his knees jutting up to his elbows, led an acoustic band near our table. His mouth was working like a claymation singer’s. Frosty air flashed at me as people passed through the front door. Every violation of quiet and stillness—including Ricki’s innocent conversation prompts—was twisting my guts. “Did you see Into the Wild?” Ricki asked.The last straw—I hated that movie.
I help up a finger and slid out of the booth. Another stairs-door-splash montage.Then another. Ricki practically ignored them; she laughed openly at my grimacing self-deprecation, waited patiently when I shambled to a nearby deli for pink stuff.When she went to the bathroom twice, I half-suspected that she was trying to make me feel better.
After dinner I walked her home, chewing half a pack of mint gum. Ricki hooked my arm to support herself on the ice as her high heels threatened to give.We arrived at her stoop and hugged, performing kind of serpentine motions with our faces.
I fumbled sheepishly. “I want to kiss you, but, you know, the time before, the bathroom time...I had gum though…” At that moment, she clapped her hands on my cheeks and planted a long one right on me.
Justin Richards blogs at naturedontknowyou.blogspot.com, and co-authored a book, Siamese Twinge, available on blurb.com.
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I WAS SLUMPED ON THE CRACKED-TILE FLOOR OF THE RESTAURANT’S ARTE POVERA, 1930S-ERA BATHROOM, RETCHING INTO THE TOILET AND IGNORING MULTIPLE CALLS FROM THE GIRL I WAS SUPPOSED TO BE MEETING FOR A FIRST DATE.
Sinibaldi
