Beam Pipe
1 day ago
Friday, March 25, 2011
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Monday, March 21, 2011
Vomit: A Love Story
It's the end of C2E2. A mad rush to Union Station, several uncertain glances at ticket stubs followed by equally uncertain glances at signs overhead, and finally a generous offer to share a row on what promises to be a completely full train. The first hour goes by uneventfully, kind exchanges and small talk dispensed. Rain streams gently and consistently from a fluffy gray sky, the flat light providing a moody but relaxing backdrop for the ride home.
An hour and a half has passed by at a snail's pace, a noticeable contrast to the blur that is the landscape just outside.
Almost all conversation has stopped for now, announcements from the speakers overhead ceased. Some passengers are sprawled across two seats, dozing in positions that promise a nasty crimp or two upon waking. I listen to some music, eardrums cocooned in tiny black buds, my head pillowed by my wadded jacket against the cold window.
Then, like the business end of a bad dream, the muffled but unmistakable sound of retching.
My stomach lurches automatically, and I dare only to look over with my eyes. My poor neighbor is hunched forward deeply, unnatural and rigid, her body making the sounds of something attempting to reject its own organs. I want to ask if she's OK, but she's clearly not, and it takes all my energy to maintain a hold on my last meal at McCormick. Now fervently fighting illness, I turn up Major Lazer and wait it out.
The above scene repeats for two more hours. I try not to laugh when dinner announcements commence. I distract myself by imagining causes for her condition other than the bobbing motion of the train. She's a god coming to test our humanity. She's patient zero for the zombie apocalypse. She's the human carrier for an experimental degenerative puking virus on its way to a lab in rural Canada. I even started drawing the comic panels in my head, with the working title Death Train.
When my stop finally comes, she's quiet, and I can't believe she's got anything left. Through my own nausea, I ask how she's doing. I collect my things and move out quickly so she can lay down across my seat. I tell her I'm sorry about the illness, and offer to get her water. She declines, and I resist the urge to warn her of dehydration, instead encouraging her to get some sleep.
I turn to get in line with other people waiting to disembark. When I look up from making sure I have everything from my seat, almost everyone is staring in my direction, eyes wider than normal, searching for... what? Assurance? Explanation? Just a natural expression of holy s*** what was that? Probably all of the above. I can see most of them hadn't been blasting music in their ears, and were going to need fresh air sooner rather than later.
Given her destination, the woman was to be on that train for at least another whole day. The thing is, I never saw any evidence of her possessing what I can only imagine as a bigger-on-the-inside miracle receptacle to receive her frequent offerings.
I'm going with the god-in-disguise theory after all.
An hour and a half has passed by at a snail's pace, a noticeable contrast to the blur that is the landscape just outside.
Almost all conversation has stopped for now, announcements from the speakers overhead ceased. Some passengers are sprawled across two seats, dozing in positions that promise a nasty crimp or two upon waking. I listen to some music, eardrums cocooned in tiny black buds, my head pillowed by my wadded jacket against the cold window.
Then, like the business end of a bad dream, the muffled but unmistakable sound of retching.
My stomach lurches automatically, and I dare only to look over with my eyes. My poor neighbor is hunched forward deeply, unnatural and rigid, her body making the sounds of something attempting to reject its own organs. I want to ask if she's OK, but she's clearly not, and it takes all my energy to maintain a hold on my last meal at McCormick. Now fervently fighting illness, I turn up Major Lazer and wait it out.
The above scene repeats for two more hours. I try not to laugh when dinner announcements commence. I distract myself by imagining causes for her condition other than the bobbing motion of the train. She's a god coming to test our humanity. She's patient zero for the zombie apocalypse. She's the human carrier for an experimental degenerative puking virus on its way to a lab in rural Canada. I even started drawing the comic panels in my head, with the working title Death Train.
When my stop finally comes, she's quiet, and I can't believe she's got anything left. Through my own nausea, I ask how she's doing. I collect my things and move out quickly so she can lay down across my seat. I tell her I'm sorry about the illness, and offer to get her water. She declines, and I resist the urge to warn her of dehydration, instead encouraging her to get some sleep.
I turn to get in line with other people waiting to disembark. When I look up from making sure I have everything from my seat, almost everyone is staring in my direction, eyes wider than normal, searching for... what? Assurance? Explanation? Just a natural expression of holy s*** what was that? Probably all of the above. I can see most of them hadn't been blasting music in their ears, and were going to need fresh air sooner rather than later.
Given her destination, the woman was to be on that train for at least another whole day. The thing is, I never saw any evidence of her possessing what I can only imagine as a bigger-on-the-inside miracle receptacle to receive her frequent offerings.
I'm going with the god-in-disguise theory after all.
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