THIS IS NOT A TIRE

February 17th, 2010

“The body follows the head, which follow the eyes. Or: Where you look is where you go.”

She mentioned she wasn’t feeling well as we exited the brown line train. She inquired “how much further to our destination?” I pointed to the mural in sight. “It’s across the street from that mural, do you see it”? She said no, and quite indignantly as well. Hummm. While standing between a restaurant and a music institute, I continued to try and explain where the colored brick wall… It no longer mattered. I heard the sound of thick liquid hitting the sidewalk next to me. Yikes, it was noon. High noon, in the old west, just about time to have a gun fight. In France, just about time for lunch on the Seine. In ancient Greece, just in time to find no shadow on the sundial. We had most definitely gone out the night before, but general consensus dictates that what happened on the street about a half a day later should take place just as one is passing out for the night (as it did for me), or just as you wake after the binge. We consumed vodka all night until meeting friends at a dive bar. So, it is questionable if these events were a result of too much vodka, or the pernicious light beers purchased to close down the night. We will never know.

She, Christene, was up for the weekend to party and generally release the stress life can sometimes deliver to your front door. Christene and I played soccer together in college (over 10 years ago- spring chickens we are not), and hadn’t seen each other in a couple of years. Many things had changed in those years and clearly we had ‘beaucoup’ about which to chat. She had a year of seniority over me, along with a foot in height. In the sports clinic we were referred to as Mutt and Jeff, as I stand 4’11”. Her beauty is a lovely mix of her father’s Vietnamese length, and her mother’s Texas American strength. She was lethal on the field, and she knew from day one she was going to be a physical therapist, which she is today.

I figured one public deposit of ruminate on the street would be enough. Laughing, I checked to see if anyone had seen what just happened, and yes, there was a guy paying for parking just ten feet away. He did not seem to take any notice. Therefore, I assumed we were in the clear. A few more steps and a second batch was set free to the universe (no more chai lattes for this one). I feel I need to add that I was, in fact, unusually dressed up for a Saturday. We were on our way to my dojo, but we had plans for the whole afternoon. Being cute was on my list. I was sporting my long black jacket from VS, but my actual outfit was a juxtaposition of camo-pants and a pink tuxedo top. The belt and shoes were what brought it all together, as they were both a girly pink. Little did I know, that outfit would be reworked less than an hour later. Christene turned to tell me something, but before any words could be formed her upper digestive tract enacted its other plans: an enormous amount of projectile vomit found its way all over my side. She had 359 degrees in which to launch her demons, but her eyes had locked on me, and that was all she wrote. Her height enabled the eruption to cover me from my shoulders down to my heels. Even with her hands in front of her face, copious amounts of vomit passed between her fingers (she was no goal keeper). The gentleman feet away had little-to-no expression, other than a need to exit stage left, which he did promptly. I was walking in circles, laughing and questioning, “how the &*^% did this just happen”? True composure would not be found until much later that day, but at the time I had quickly realized we needed help. We were something of a hot mess.

I removed my jacket, folded it inside out, and handed it to Christene. “This thing is yours until we drop it off at the cleaners.” In the cold, standing on the street, I called our friend Bridget to come rescue us, as I was not about to board the train with a silent companion stinking the compartment up with disgorge. “I need you to come and get us, Christene just puked on me!”, I was able to force out somewhere in between crying and laughing. Bridget, quite concerned because she was not totally understanding the situation, told me she was on her way once everything was clear. Moments later I received a text message from Bridget informing me that it would be a few more minutes, as first she had to update her facebook status.

It read: “Just got the most unique phone call al year to date” Bridget, can you come pick me up from the train station? I just got puked on…”

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