9:00 AM- I wake up. I go into
the bathroom and throw up. I figure this is a good sign.
Hopefully I will have gotten the poison out of my system
by noon, when my alarm is set to go off. My concern
is that Eric (sleeping in my bed) might have heard me
puking and be grossed out. I brush my teeth.
10:30 AM- The phone rings. It's
Adam. I snarl, "What do you want?" He becomes offended.
Noon- Alarm goes off. I actually don't feel all that bad.
I slam down some Gatorade and get dressed. John comes
to the door a little early. I'm not quite ready to leave.
I introduce him to Eric. For the rest of the day I expect
John to ask, "Who was that guy in your house?" but he
never does.
1:00 PM- With John and his two
friends, I arrive at the Rose Garden Coliseum. We drive
straight to the special VIP parking area, which is cool.
Then we take an elevator up to the suite level. Walking
down a hall, we come to a big reception desk like they
have in corporate offices. We're directed along a curving
hallway to Suite #13. We enter a small foyer with a
cloak closet. Then we enter a sort of bar/kitchenette
area, with a fridge, stovetop, curved counter, and a
huge TV screen mounted up above them on the wall. Past
this is another bar with stools, and beyond that, a
mini bank of bleachers. We rush towards the bleachers
because beyond them, over a balcony railing, is the
coliseum, the floor covered with dirt, a big pile of
wrecked cars in the center, and a bunch of jacked-up
trucks driving around in circles. It is a surreal sight.
The trucks don't look real, but you can taste the dust
rising into the air.
A waitress comes to take our order. John's
friends order beers. John can't drink or eat meat or
spicy food because of a gall bladder problem; hence
he is the only one of us who isn't hung over. I order
a Coke, but the waitress says, "Oh, the sodas are over
there in the fridge." I eat a bunch of complementary
snack mix and drink the coke. I'm feeling OK, although
I have to curl up like a fetus in a comfy chair to hide
during the National Anthem.
2:00 PM- These Monster Trucks
are loud, loud, loud. They drive out one at a time,
posture with their front tires up on the roof of one
of the wrecks, and then drive over the pile of cars.
The announcer tries to pump up the hype, but the audience,
mostly families with small kids sitting row upon row
on the red plastic seats terraced beneath us, doesn't
react much… not even to the truck made to resemble a
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. I sense that we're supposed
to be the most excited about Grave Digger. In fact,
before he/it drives out, the crowd is primed to cry
out his name. "OK, that's all the trucks," teases the
announcer. "Oh wait, what's that? There's one missing?
Is that what you're saying? But all the trucks are already
out here, aren't they? What's that you're saying, I
forgot one?" Some of the crowd below us, especially
the kids, start yelling. Some of them erroneously call
out for "Truckosaurus" but most get it right. "What's
that? Oh, how could I have forgotten… GRAVEDIGGER!!!"
Out drives an outsize contraption with enormous tires and a skull painted on it. With a deafening rev, it drives up onto the pile of wrecked cars and unceremoniously tips over on its side. There's a boring pause while a tow truck comes out and gets it upright again.
2:30 PM- John's friends are on
their second round of beers. They've already taken a
smoke break. And now they're eating hot dogs.
Some other people who have the same free passes as we do file into our suite with their kids. These kids look bookish and shy. They seem unhappy and remain sitting quietly in the bleachers, never taking their fingers out of their ears.
I decide that next time the waitress
comes around, I'm going to get a beer and a hot dog.
I'm still kind of nauseous. I think maybe I'll feel
better by the time she comes back … but she's there
in no time. She's stopped by our suite more often than
a waitress at a regular restaurant comes to your table.
I ask for a bottle of Henry's Ale and a hot dog. John
buys it and sits next to me as I start to eat. He must
be getting a vicarious enjoyment out of watching someone
drink and eat ill-advisedly. Although wrapped in plastic
and with a side of truly repulsive sauerkraut, the hot
dog doesn't taste so bad. I look down past the crowds
below me, at the monster trucks that are filling the
whole arena with dust and gas fumes, take a huge bite
of my hot dog, and chase it with a big chug of beer.
This should be the perfect moment, the epitome of the
day. I guess it is.
As I swallow the beer, I feel a sudden, sharp pain in my chest. John, sitting next to me, sees it happen. My face must look like a carpet with a weasel trapped underneath it. I run for the bathroom. I spend a long time spitting into the sink. (Fortunately, there is a TV in there, so I'm able to watch a little speed skating at the same time.) I'm not really vomiting, just spitting up all this bubbly mucus out of my throat. By the time I feel well enough to come out of the bathroom, the hot dog is long gone and the guys want to leave. I have no problem with that.
5:00 PM- Eric and I wake up from
a nap. I feel almost completely better. I go to the
store and buy some ginger ale. I pour us each a glass,
with ice and straws. I take a sip… a really small sip,
out of a straw. And it all comes back: the constricting
pain, the useless retching, and the endless bubbly spit.
7:00 PM- Eric is patiently reading
on the couch. Finally I come out of the bathroom long
enough to tell him I won't be making it to dinner. I
feel so terrible that I have to lie face down on the
floor while I talk to him. I feel like the world's most
disgusting piece of shit: a gnarly little knot of heinousness,
a nasty, gurgling, drooling gremlin. I feel like some
kind of unspeakably repulsive sub-human creature, and
really not at all the sort you would want to take out
to dinner.
8:00 PM- Eric leaves. I go back
into the bathroom. This thing just won't go away. Out
of desperation, I finally stick a finger down my throat.
About a cup of some clear, slimy substance slinks out
of my throat and slithers quickly, like a centipede,
down the drain. This helps temporarily, but then the
pain just gets worse again, and I can't leave the bathroom
for more than a few minutes, because I am drooling incessantly.
9:00 PM- I stick two fingers down
my throat. Spit begins to stream from the back crannies
of my mouth and down over my lips. Something is coming.
I can feel it, down in my guts somewhere, my whole digestive
system is getting ready to perform its version of a
back flip. My whole body heaves. Bitter bile from the
very dregs of my stomach defies gravity to leap up,
like a corrosive yellow geyser, to the back of my throat.
I begin to vomit with such ferocity that my ears hurt.
At the height of all the commotion, a little pink fleshy
thing that looks like a miniature kidney is propelled
fast across my uvula and palate and splats onto the
cold white basin of the sink. I look at it, and I
recognize it. I know what it is. It is a piece of
hot dog.
Instantly, I feel completely well.
10:00 PM-I call Eric to tell him
it's safe to come back. He says, "I thought you were
down for the count." He's on his way into a movie. I
run over to the theater to meet him, and get there just
in time for the opening credits of Monster.
Anne Marie DiStefano is a Contributing
Editor for Lime Tea and a reporter for the Portland
Tribune. She also owns one of the Northwest's largest
collections of bounced freelance checks from bankrupt
Internet content providers.
