Flatula

His super power was flatulence, and he wasn’t afraid to use it. On the nine thirty seven train, particularly, he used it to cut a wide swath of space round him, leaving him free to rest his dirty sneakers on the opposite seat, or to lie down with his long legs stretched across the aisle, hogging several benches. His record was seven rows cleared in three minutes and seventeen seconds, but he believed that with diligence and a good, fiber free diet rich in fried cheese and food truck curry he could bring that number down to under two. 

The trick to improving his number was that it had to be made clear, and fast, that this was not a one time thing. Most people sitting nasally adjacent would tolerate one blast, but would quickly relocate when it became apparent that he was some sort of human Glade mister who spritzed the air approximately every fifty one seconds or so. 

He loved the recognition in their eyes best. First the delicate sniff, and the surreptitious glance round the room, then the relief as the initial assault dissipated. He loved watching the glaze return to their eyes as their gazes fell back to their phones. How quickly they forgot. Well, they would not forget him. And he would fire again. 

Fate stepped in one fateful morning in July. He had mixed orange juice with his glass of milk that morning, a surefire cocktail that never failed to get the ball rolling. He was seated on his favorite bench when the woman who would change his life boarded the train. Her name was Eunice and she normally took the nine oh five, but had binge watched “Breaking Bad” the previous night, which had resulted in a poor night of sleep compounded by her chronic sinus condition. Now she nervously took the seat opposite him and checked her texts. Two messages already from her pimply faced boss, demanding to know why she was late for her shift at the toll booth. 

He was instantly enchanted. There was just something about the way her eyes squinched up as she searched the tiny keyboard, the way she bit her lip. The boxy cut of her uniform promised hidden delights (although Eunice was built like a tank and the polyester shirt accurately outlined her figure). He was just imagining unbuttoning that top button, the one that made her third chin dimple so fetchingly, when in his stomach the orange juice rolled over and start talking to the milk. Frantically he clenched his cheeks and managed to reabsorb the threat somehow. Whew. He took a deep breath of the clear, unsullied train air and at that moment Eunice glanced up. 

As their eyes met he felt a shiver of some ancient awakening. He was not a spiritual man, but Eunice, who had read every metaphysical book on soul mates available at her library, thought she recognized in him her mate of several lifetimes, including the Cleopatra one, the Spongebob one (he was Patrick) and a parallel lifetime, seventeen lightyears away, where they ate mostly beans and grubs. Not one to waste time, she delicately opened the lines of communication.

“Hey,” she said gruffly in her adenoidal tones, and her voice ran its fingers through every fiber of his fiber-depleted being. He shivered, and again, suddenly felt his colon preparing to unkink. By neglecting to answer her and squeezing every muscle south of Taos, again he managed to stave off disaster. He’d have to wait till he got off at his stop. He couldn’t burn the crops before this angel of mercy. When he opened his eyes and sighed with relief he noticed her looking at him weirdly and he realized he hadn't responded to her. 

“Uh, hi,” he said, and then it was as though a dam broke. Their small talk rivaled the great ramblings of a Will Shakespeare or a Ben Jonson, covering everything from current Facebook memes to the changing of the fish stick batter at the local pub.

As his stop grew near, so did his apprehension. How could he ensure that he see her again? For this was clearly The One. At the same time, the fart baby burgeoning in his lower colon was demanding birthing, and any second now. He was preparing to ask for her number when he realized she was gathering her belongings and was getting off at the same stop. If he could just hold it in for a few seconds more, they could exchange digits, she’d be on her way and he could unleash his farty fury in a safe, secluded area.

He clenched his bum and minced off the train as she lumbered off behind him. “Oh, crap,” she bellowed daintily, as, juggling her cigarette and lighter, she lost her grip on her phone. It skittered past him and came to a stop. 

“Allow me,” he said gallantly, and forgetting that the release valve was unfortunately positioned in direct nasal range, he bent to retrieve it. In that fateful moment he felt his muscles give way and a mighty stream rushed from his nether region, accompanied by a haunting butt trumpet solo. Several passersby, catching a surprised whiff, collapsed in heaps on the ground, thus ensuring their physical safety by falling below the line of fire, which erupted in a blinding flash as the simultaneous flare from her lighter ignited the jet stream, and that was the last thing either of them knew.

Epilogue

Seventeen light years away, in a parallel universe on the planet Girth, a square shaped woman with three chins is sitting down to supper with her man.

“Anyway, my horoscope said that I need to makes some serious changes, or face some extremely negative consequences,” she says, lighting up a Lucky.

“Uh huh,” he says, absentmindedly, eyes on the neckline of her muumuu where her third chin swung delicately over the lace. 

She leans over to uncover a dish when suddenly she feels a ripple in the force, as would be caused by a massive explosion far, far away. As the matrix realigns itself and her mind clears, she sees him reaching for the dish.

“NO!” she screams, and lunging forward, she knocks the plate of beans from his surprised hand. “I think we should switch to kale,” she explains apologetically, kicking the spilled beans under the table and handing him a plate of greens. 

Birthday Cakes and My Mistakes

Many years ago, for some childhood birthday, my mother threw me a little shindig. In those days the most intimate circle of friends for me was comprised of cousins, and they duly arrived, bearing gifts and big smiles. One of the families, however, had clearly forgotten the party and arrived a little out of breath. Their gift had been obviously purchased at a gas station on the way over. They assured me that it was only PART of my gift and that the second and BIGGER portion was yet to come.

It took me several months of springing at them hopefully whenever they swam into view (might I add, bearing NO gift) to realize that in fact, the promised second part of my present was not coming. In fact, the second part DID NOT EXIST. It was a white lie. A red herring. A carrot at the end of a stick wrapped up in twenty seven nesting boxes and tied all around with pink ribbons and caught in some inaccessible dimension.

I accidentally revisited this lesson at school just the other day. Last semester a wonderful writing professor who loved my work asked to keep my final paper, without his comments added, to read to future classes. He promised to send me an email with his thoughts separately.

Every day for the next month I hopefully checked my email, and even nebbishly sent him notes a couple of times, false cheer and exclamation marks spread thickly over my words. 

“Hi, Dr. Simpson! I hope you are having a WONDERFUL summer!! I’ve been enjoying it, especially with all the rain!! It’s like we’re Seattle, huh?! Haha!! So, I’m sure you’ve been enjoying your time off but I was wondering if you’d had a chance to …” 

Blah blah blah. You get my drift. I’m ashamed to admit that I crafted two or three of these odiously lighthearted missives before I gave up, at least for the summer. But about thirty seconds after the fall semester began I jumped right back on the cart and started smacking the horse. 

Still no response. I was positive something was wrong with the email system. Come on, it's  Microsoft Outlook. You'd be suspicious too.

A couple of days ago as I was sitting in the King Center courtyard morosely chewing a burrito flavored power bar and pretending it was good, I spied him rocketing past me. “Dr. Simpson!” I bellowed, leaping up and startling the guy who was enjoying his actual real life burrito across from me. (Oh, another thing I’ve learned at school: just because someone shares your table in the courtyard at school, it doesn’t mean they want to talk to you. It’s like sharing an elevator. Seriously. Behave like everyone else and act like your phone is the most interesting thing in the world.)

He turned with a hunted look. “Oh, hi,” he stammered. “Uh, I’m really really late for a class so I can’t talk but I got your emails and I am sending you my comments later tonight! I swear. Sorry it’s taken so long but your paper got buried in a big stack of other paperwork and I’ve just been … I swear … tonight … I haven’t forgotten … “ the last few words were lost as he barreled away from me.

Pleased, I threw the rest of my healthy snack away and celebrated with a Snickers bar. 

The next morning, I checked and re-checked. Still no email. At the end of the day, still nothing. A week later, still nothing. It was then that the memory popped into my head. This was my gas station gift! There is no part two. I shared this epiphany with a friend who listened kindly and then gave me his keen, insightful advice. “Just get over it.”

Okay, fine. Thanks, man. But I kind of can’t. 

So, what is the acceptable time to wait until you check something off your list as a bad debt? I still don’t know. But then I’m the kid still waiting for the second half of her birthday present over here. 

The Lesson

My friend Rachel came from Maryland to visit many years ago. Rachel is a pretty girl and one of her favorite things is to go out at night and chat up all the boys. It’s her Olympics. 

One evening, after poring over my pathetic wardrobe of yoga tops and thrift shop skirts, we finally found a dress that met with her approval, and to ensure success she shared a tactic with me. She instructed me to enter the room, walk past a guy I found cute, then turn and smile coyly over my shoulder at him. 

“But why don’t I just smile at him when I see him?” I asked, reasonably. “I could wave, too.” I illustrated by grinning like a baboon and flailing my arm wildly, taking out a small picture frame and upsetting the cat. 

“You just don’t!” she said. “It’s called flirting! Come on—there must be someone you like right now.”

Unenthusiastically I sorted through my most recent feelings. Hm. Euphoria over a good parking space? New LOTR movie coming out? Nope, those couldn’t possibly—hello, what’s this? Somewhere in that tangle of emotions I recalled a funny feeling in my tummy after I’d encountered a cute sushi chef. I had attributed it to a bad shrimp, but could I have been wrong? Were love and salmonella so close in texture that they could in fact be mistaken for one another? Since it was the closest thing I had at the moment, I shrugged and offered up Cute Chef.

Rachel was pleased. She outlined our strategy (which was basically going to Sushi Planet), and reminded me to walk PAST him then turn and smile.

I suggested a couple of practice runs in the living room, slightly concerned about walking in one direction and looking another, but she nixed that, although she did offer to illustrate at the restaurant by going first. 

At the hostess station I nervously chomped seven after dinner mints while the girl perused the seating chart. “We’ll sit at the bar,” Rachel said. “Maybe at the end?” I stuffed a second fistful of mints in my mouth then spied Cute Chef, who glanced up and smiled. I stopped chewing and scowled back, in a clever attempt to throw him off the track and save the good stuff for later. 

“What ARE you doing?” Rachel asked, but before I could explain, she swanned off. Gracefully she followed the hostess the length of the bar, smiling at the many approving glances tossed her way. HER feet obediently walked straight although she glanced over her shoulder several times.

The long white floor unfolded before me like a horrid slippery plank, and the fashionable tile and concrete room was bright with noise. I took a step and didn’t fall down, so I took a couple more. Still all good. Encouraged, I galloped three steps forward then remembered the protocol. Oops. I stopped, rebooted, then slinked forward. No one was looking at me, so that was good. (But wait! They’re supposed to look.) I cleared my throat loudly, to catch a few eyes, but no one looked up. Coughing loudly worked, however, in fact so successfully that a pimpled busboy, apparently concerned for his health, took a long cut to the kitchen by actually leaving the restaurant and going through the alley. Several diners shielded their food.

A couple more steps and I’d be past the hostess station, the bowl of mints and squarely in open water. My self confidence, usually tucked in a corner with a good book, sat up, ears pricked. I was getting the hang of this! Every molecule in my body was dancing; my arms and legs were as synchronized as a swimmer’s limbs. For the first time in my life all systems appeared to be on line and functioning smoothly, rather than fighting for individuation. This is what it meant to be completely and utterly alive!

Third step. I saw Rachel giving me the sign: Now! Like a carelessly blossoming flower, I took my eyes off my feet, half turned and flashed Cute Chef a forced and toothy grin. He smiled back at me just as my left foot, drunk with power and newly unsupervised, caught the stack of metal and wood chairs behind the hostess station and sent them crashing to the floor. Some fell straight down and stayed politely there, but several of them took the opportunity to scrape, screeching loudly, to a halt several feet away. I glanced furtively around. Well, Rachel’s tutelage was successful on one level. I definitely had everyone’s attention. Out of the corner of my sheepish eyes I saw Rachel sidling out the back.

Later, as we were in line at the grocery store—I mean, that incident called for SERIOUS cookie therapy—we caught sight of a big magazine display: GQ, Men’s Fitness, Vogue, and more. “Oh my god,” I said, spying an especially appealing cover. We both rushed forward and snatched a magazine from the rack. I thumbed excitedly through my copy, and Rachel hers, when she had an epiphany. She looked up from her shirtless Johnny Depp, and pushed up the cover of my magazine to reveal a hot and steamy full color completely nude picture of a bowl of beef noodle pho. I don’t know if it’s possible to sprain one’s eyeballs from rolling them too hard, but Rachel was in serious danger of that for a moment. Needless to say, the flirting lessons were deemed useless and stopped after that night.