It's been too long since my last puke story – so I think it is time to spew one out for you today. OK, this one involves a young and testosterone-laden me on a date. I must set the stage:
It was my junior year in high school. That means 1978 – disco was just crowning in the birth canal and I was only too proud to be wearing my Angel Flight triple-knit polyester pants and tight fitting hook shirt. We quadruple-dated this night so there were eight of us waiting in line to see Close Encounters of the Third Kind. I recommend it. Before leaving the house, I took some medicine for my pizza-face. I was on an antibiotic – probably tetracycline prescribed by Dr. Ponitch, a tiny dermatologist (visualization: two thumbs up high over the head air-squeezing a zit). This medication is not to be taken on an empty stomach. No problem had we followed our original plans to eat first but we decided instead to see the movie and then eat.
While standing in line, I began to feel queasy. Green. Nauseous. Vomitous. OK, it wasn't that bad, but I decided to calm my stomach down before things got out of hand. I left the rather long line and found a kiosk selling food and snacks and drinks and such. They had one of those machines that is a big tank on top that fountains inside itself to mix the beverage that it contains. Grape juice. Perfect. I ordered a large grape juice and began to sip it before we went into the theater (or is it theatre?). It made me feel, um, different. Better? Maybe. But at least different. As we neared the door to enter the theatere I noticed the sign that read, *No food or drinks allowed.* So, I hurriedly finished my juice so as not to waste it.
We sat together in one row and I was close to the aisle. During the credits I heaved. No, not once, not twice, but I emptied. On the lady in the row in front of me. On the floor. On my Angel Flights. Purple wheeze squirting out of me – I swear I should have looked at my eyes to see if any leaked into them. I didn't know what to do so I just got up and ran to the bathroom. I think my date hailed an usher, or a cab, I'm not sure which.
In the bathroom, I saw the rather large, purple stain on my pants and so I did what every red-blooded American, 17-year-old boy does – I dropped trou and washed them in the sink. I found it liberating to be standing in the men's room in my tight-whites with my pants in the make-shift laundry sink. They felt cool if not cold slipping back on my body and I returned to my seat to find the usher swearing and finishing up the mop job he was doing. Everyone else on my row was laughing.
No comments:
Post a Comment