The Potty Mouth at the Table by Laurie Notaro Read Free Book Online Page A

school reunion if I could just stand up for two minutes without having to run to the bathroom like a star on Teen Mom hoping to score another cover of In Touch with rumors of another unplanned pregnancy. I was still sick by morning and, without a minute’s worth of sleep, had a decision to make: call the front desk and arrange to stay another night in a hotel I could not afford, or suck it up, get myself together, and take the train home as planned.
    It was then that I devised one of the worst strategies in the history of mankind. I decided that if I could keep coffee down for an hour, I was good to go for the daylong train ride back to Eugene. True, ninety percent of the coffee was French vanilla coffee creamer—which I do believe is Oil of Olay with corn syrup—but with hot tap water and a pack of instant Starbucks, I constantly strive to make things more disgusting than they ever need to be.
    And in an hour, I was okay. Not so much as a gag wentdown or came up in those sixty minutes—so I packed my stuff, brushed my teeth, and called for a taxi. I was so relieved I would be home in eight hours that I could hardly stand it; all I wanted to do was sweat in my own bed and drool on my own pillow.
    Things were going great until I was standing in line waiting to get my ticket when I suddenly shivered and realized I had pitted out with a flash episode of perspiration that I call the IRS Sweats, the kind of horrifying chill that envelops your entire body, like when you realize you owe the IRS so much money that you have to make payments.
    Positive I looked like a junkie with flop sweat bubbling on my face, I scanned the room to see whether anyone had noticed . . . until it occurred to me that I was in the Seattle train station. Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever been in the Seattle train station, but I’m sure it will be a nice place someday. There will come a time when tiles won’t be missing from the walls, cracked and dusty plaster won’t fall from the ceiling, and yellow CAUTION tape will not stretch from crumbling wall to crumbling wall—but that day has not yet come. It does, however, make a convincing backdrop for any film featuring a drug addict/hooker/runaway character; in fact, it’s the kind of place that can send anyone immediately into withdrawal. From anything.
    I looked like the president of the Junior League compared to some of what was standing in line with me at the train station. In fact, I would have made a cash bet that if I suddenly yelled “Does anyone have crystal meth?” at least five people within twenty feet of me would have reached into their shoes or pants immediately. I got my bearings as the flash sweat passed and I reassured myself that once I got on the train, I would be fine. I just needed to sit down and stay down. At the ticket counter, I booked a window seat, waiting for the moment when I could rest my head against the cool glass, close my eyes, and finally sleep.
    Once I walked up the tiny staircase to the upper level of the train, I found my seat, and the relief from knowing I was on my way home actually did make me feel a little bit better. I leaned my head against the window and sighed as the train started to move, slowly at first, chugging back and forth as I got closer to my own bed and my own toilet foot by foot. Jostle by jostle. By jostle. By jostle.
    The first wave that rose up from my stomach only hit the bottom of my ribs and I prayed it was a gas bubble or a heart attack. I ate fried food, I told myself. It could totally be a blocked artery! I took a deep breath and tried to focus on the attendant now one row behind me, taking tickets. I got mine ready to hand over and planned to immediately makemy way to the bathroom. Just to splash water on my face. That was all. Just some water.
    I was not going to throw up.
    Do not throw up.
    Do not.
    Fifteen seconds later, the next wave reached my neck but apparently did not have enough strength to surge through the several