Two nights ago, I had a big cup of Smooth Move tea in the late evening as I was working on the novel. I wasn't particularly constipated, but had been feeling a bit bloated for a few days, hadn't felt like I was completely evacuating, and felt hungry all the time, hungry for junk food, cookies, potato chips, etc. I figured I would have a nice big BM the next morning and feel all better. But I didn't. I had soft stools all day long, but nothing that felt complete.
Last night, I made my way to the nearby coffee shop to work on chapter 31, having just read the first seven pages of it to S and having gotten some things to work on. I really wanted a cookie, but they only had two oatmeal cookies left, so I had a beer instead. Oh, and I had a cigarette. I had a cigarette there last Saturday when I went to work on the novel, and for some reason my creative mind responds well to that drug, so I did it again. Again, I was rewarded.
I was there for a couple of hours, churning away at the chapter, feeling good about what was happening with it. Then the woman at the table next to me had a piece of pecan pie. It looked so good... And, I knew that she had the last piece from the previous pie and there was now a whole, fresher pie on the baked goods shelf. So I went for it.
And I couldn't have a piece of pecan pie without coffee. So I got a small cup and pumped it full of decaf.
It was getting close to closing time, the students were shutting their laptops and leaving me in a bigger and bigger space. I was right at the end of the section I was working on, the last paragraph in fact, and really wanted to get it down while I was flowing from the caffeine, nicotine and sugar. But then there was a rumble in my stomach. Like a hunger rumble, but quite the opposite. I hated to take a shit in the bathroom at the end of the night, fearing that the nice woman behind the counter would need to get in there as part of her closing process. And shitting in public carries a certain amount of embarrassment with it.
I gathered up my notebooks, my water bottle and my dirty dishes, deposited the dishes in the bus tub up front then passed the restroom, twisted the knob, but it was locked, so I headed out the front door, to the truck to roll another cigarette. The rumbling had subsided; I decided I could hold it until I got home, until I finished that paragraph with the aid of one more cigarette.
No sooner had I lit the cigarette, opened the notebook and clicked the pen than the rumbling came again, and this time it was accompanied by a dropping feeling, as if my clenched intestines had just relaxed, top to bottom, and everything was at the bottom of my torso. I broke a slight sweat as I worked my sphincter muscle to keep myself from shitting in my pants. I gathered up my stuff and walked to the truck, humming a pained song to myself, telling myself that I wouldn't shit my pants, people don't really shit their pants, adults don't shit there pants.
But then I remembered this from Margaret Cho's "Revolution" concert:
But I didn't shit my pants. I was able to keep my ass clenched until I got home, though I did strengthen my stomach muscles. Fortunately no one was awake when I got home so I didn't have to make nice or even say anything; I went right to the bathroom and was there for a good 15 minutes shitting and shitting and shitting.
And then, for the rest of the night, my stomach made weird sounds, like distant thunder. I slept in two- and three-hour increments, and every time I woke up - to pee - the sounds were still going on. And I never got that last paragraph written, but I'm gonna work on it now.
Last night, I made my way to the nearby coffee shop to work on chapter 31, having just read the first seven pages of it to S and having gotten some things to work on. I really wanted a cookie, but they only had two oatmeal cookies left, so I had a beer instead. Oh, and I had a cigarette. I had a cigarette there last Saturday when I went to work on the novel, and for some reason my creative mind responds well to that drug, so I did it again. Again, I was rewarded.
I was there for a couple of hours, churning away at the chapter, feeling good about what was happening with it. Then the woman at the table next to me had a piece of pecan pie. It looked so good... And, I knew that she had the last piece from the previous pie and there was now a whole, fresher pie on the baked goods shelf. So I went for it.
And I couldn't have a piece of pecan pie without coffee. So I got a small cup and pumped it full of decaf.
It was getting close to closing time, the students were shutting their laptops and leaving me in a bigger and bigger space. I was right at the end of the section I was working on, the last paragraph in fact, and really wanted to get it down while I was flowing from the caffeine, nicotine and sugar. But then there was a rumble in my stomach. Like a hunger rumble, but quite the opposite. I hated to take a shit in the bathroom at the end of the night, fearing that the nice woman behind the counter would need to get in there as part of her closing process. And shitting in public carries a certain amount of embarrassment with it.
I gathered up my notebooks, my water bottle and my dirty dishes, deposited the dishes in the bus tub up front then passed the restroom, twisted the knob, but it was locked, so I headed out the front door, to the truck to roll another cigarette. The rumbling had subsided; I decided I could hold it until I got home, until I finished that paragraph with the aid of one more cigarette.
No sooner had I lit the cigarette, opened the notebook and clicked the pen than the rumbling came again, and this time it was accompanied by a dropping feeling, as if my clenched intestines had just relaxed, top to bottom, and everything was at the bottom of my torso. I broke a slight sweat as I worked my sphincter muscle to keep myself from shitting in my pants. I gathered up my stuff and walked to the truck, humming a pained song to myself, telling myself that I wouldn't shit my pants, people don't really shit their pants, adults don't shit there pants.
But then I remembered this from Margaret Cho's "Revolution" concert:
But I didn't shit my pants. I was able to keep my ass clenched until I got home, though I did strengthen my stomach muscles. Fortunately no one was awake when I got home so I didn't have to make nice or even say anything; I went right to the bathroom and was there for a good 15 minutes shitting and shitting and shitting.
And then, for the rest of the night, my stomach made weird sounds, like distant thunder. I slept in two- and three-hour increments, and every time I woke up - to pee - the sounds were still going on. And I never got that last paragraph written, but I'm gonna work on it now.
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