By now, just about everybody with access to the internet or newspapers has probably heard about the new line of presciption pills that limit the intestine’s ability to process calories. Side effects for the pills are pretty severe, especially because if you eat the normal amount as usual, your intestines will rebel and push the food down out the poop shoot. In the medical lexicon, this is referred to as, “anal leakage,” and certainly causes pause for those potential pill poppers who may not wish to risk pants pooped.
Long story short, and this is for the reader’s benefit by the way, because I’ve been told right to my face not to stretch this story out, and even to shut up… Saturday my friend Kiki and I went to the Blue Ribbon, which is my favorite smoked meat spot and is located in downtown Arlington, Mass. He had smokin’ hot sausage links and I had the Big Daddy Brisket Roll Up, which was not quite as good as the King Brisket Sandwich with Spicy Hornet Mustard that I’d had earlier in the week, but was still damn good.
That night I hosted and he did what Kiki does, by which I mean to say I have no idea or care what he did that night, but I worked as a good looking young host in a busy neighborhood restaurant that caters mostly to fish fiends and those hung up on smoked meats. It’s a good fit for me. However, because of my busy power lunch schedule bleeding right into my workday, I had not had time to fit pooping into my schedule that Saturday. Not an emergency: on Saturdays I get out early.
This past Saturday in particular I got out wicked early: it was summertime slow. You see, I am a high volume host, not a low volume host, and the restaurant respects this aspect of my mental condition. I get jumpy, impatient, angry, foul-mouthed, and downright dirty when forced to fjord the low volume flow. Its all about the high volume flow for me. At our bar I drank a single beer and had a double bass cake special with baked beans, fried onions and house tartar, and it was damn good. We get good stuff from our bass killer, and those cakes made with fresh bass and potatos sure are tasty.
Fifteen minutes later I had befriended a straight boy from New Orleans up in Cambridge for a month on vacation with his family. I was interested, not romantically, because we had immediately dropped our sexuality cards, but interested in why folks from Nahleans would vacation in Cambridge for a month. He said to escape the heat. I thought, “witness protection program.” It was vaguely compatible: the witness protection program indeed allows certain folks to escape the heat. Even though I had brunch to work wicked early the next morning, I dedicated my night to showing him a couple bars in Cambridge.
Two hours later I left him in the company of new friends at the B-Side Lounge and made my walk home. It was after midnight, but nothing outrageous, and I used the available time to check my emails, open windows, say hi to my roommates, and read for a while before bed. Six alarm clocks set, and to bed. Not a second thought about how much food was in my intestines and how I had not yet used the toilet that day. But that would turn to be the disastrous turning point thirty six to forty eight hours later that came back to haunt me like a boomarang of bad will.
In the morning for some reason all six of my alarms malfunctioned. When this happens its never just one or two of them, its always all of them all at once. At least the condition is reliable. I woke up anyway, because I am the floor captain at brunch and because thats a deadly serious job. But I woke up with only thirty minutes before work, and so I used the time to shower and get coffee. If I don’t have at least two hours I don’t even open up the Sunday New York Times because I need that time with it, to get to know it, to savor it. Take it to the toilet and to bed. Bottom line: no morning evacuation.
The lack of evacuation only occured to me after I was already setting up for brunch, and I knew it could have deadly consequences. Because I can not shit at work, I can’t eat anything if I even think I might have to shit during work hours. To save intestinal space. To conserve what meager intestinal mileage might be available. No food means little blood sugar, which can influence how cheerful I am with tables. And today was my assistant manager’s birthday, and as the floor captain it would be totally unnacceptable to be grumpy. So I went to the Devil, a bartender named Nick.
Upon hearing my story, the Devil handed me two pills named Immodium and said that should cork it up for good, no worries, until forever and ever. And I took them and it did the trick. It was a miracle how little I even considered my intestines with those two magic pills, especially considering how constantly I usually consider and maintain my intestinal well-being. The pills did the trick, and all that brisket and bass cake shut up and stay put. Or rather, came along for the ride. And brunch is a wild, shit-dealing ride.
The irony is that I would be so intestinally placid while dealing the public items known to cause major bathroom breakthroughs. Eggs, coffee, greasy bacon, habanero sausage, more eggs, more coffee, alchohol, flying from my hands to their mouths and then back out their butts, while for me the cycle had stopped completely. It was a good brunch, after which I met back up with Kiki. He talked me into playing softball, so we headed down to the park on that sunny Sunday afternoon.
Yes it was slow pitch softball, but nevertheless I impressed myself. With little to no baseball experience of any kind since one traumatizing game of tee ball back when I was a fat five year old, I almost maintained a 1.000 batting average, ending up with two singles, an RBI, and a pop up to third. Yes I mangled my chances for MVP by letting a shot out to my position in center field fly over my dumbstruck head, but I had been watching a bulldog play soccer at the time, and our team still won 9-8. After the game, I went to Atwood’s, a nearby Cambridge St. joint where several of the players on our team work. I had grilled ribs and potato salad.
That night I took it easy and watched the VHS copy of, “The Buttercream Gang.” It was educational and my friends Brisket and Kiki and I talked about the various aspects in which it was important to put down peer pressure and remain pure, unfettered, in a word, “buttercreamy.” They left, and the Immodium continued to work. Again, the thought of pooping didn’t even cross my mind. At this point a little butter cream in my pants, also known as anal leakage, may have averted future disaster, but the pills from the Devil prevented even that. Night fell and so I went to sleep early.
Monday was the acid test of my intestinal awareness, and I failed. It was simply a beautiful day, and so I cleaned the house and showered and organized my treasures in my room and read email and newspapers of the world, and the Immodium worked on, and I forgot once and for all to rid my body of the Big Daddy brisket, the bass cakes, the grilled ribs, not to even speak of the baked beans, potato salad, or cole slaw. And the day was fine until it started to get busy. Until 7:30 PM to be specific, at which time I had an intestinal attack on the seismic scale of the underwater oceanic earthquake that caused the Thai Tsunami two years back.
Instantly covered in sweat, weak in the knees, the Immodium at last gone, I ran away from two tables trying to get my attention, told my manager, and went to the bathroom. It was mostly gas. Coming out of the bathroom Kiki, bartending, saw my pale face and bright red knuckles and laughed so hard he had to duck down behind the bar. The Devil was also there serving drinks, but he didn’t talk, because he didn’t need to be told. The Devil knew. As soon as work was finished I borrowed Keek’s car and drove home to let the demons out.
Kids, this story ain’t similar to the Buttercream Gang in that there is no clear moral. But if there was a moral, it’d be not to let the Devil give you little pills that promise to stop a force of nature.