A Story About Vomit
This is a story about vomit.
Vomit.
You have to love that word. It sounds exactly like what it is describing. It’s disgusting and vulgar. And when your telling a story about vomit there is never a happy ending.
This story has no happy ending.
It’s a story about vomit.
I had a feeling I was going to vomit on Friday, October 13th. It occurred to me when my friend Sean was driving me home from a bar in Boston, which he and his band had just performed. My world was spinning. I was trying desperately not to look out the car windows. I stared at my feet. I don’t remember what I said to Sean or what we talked about on the trip home. I probably thanked him a bunch of times for driving me home. I had intended to take the T back to my hometown. However to my surprise I learned that the T shut down at 11pm.
At about a quarter mile away from my house I told Sean to drop me off. I was dropped off in the parking lot of a restaurant called Grimsby’s. My world was still spinning and it seemed impossible for me to walk in a straight line. I hadn’t planned to drink that much but after purchasing my first drink with my debit card I noticed a sign which read, “Minimum 25 dollar requirement for debit card purchases.” I had four beers before going to see Sean’s band play at this bar. I would later learn that the drinks were fairly inexpensive. What made things worse is that half way through my tab I decided to switch things up by purchasing some rum and cokes. I then sealed my fate by ordering a Long Island Iced Tea, which I chugged before getting into his car after paying my bill.
I arrived home and put on a DVD then lay down. I got the spins and sat back up. My computer was on. So I got up to check my email. After checking my email along with my Myspace and Facebook page, I turned off my computer and attempted to lie down again. I still had the spins. I needed to do something. I got dressed for bed and went to the bathroom.
When I got back from the bathroom I noticed something. Something was odd. My room was dirtier than usual. It wasn’t so much that there were empty beer bottles everywhere. But it was the fact that there was vomit all over the side of my futon and the floor beside it.
Did I do that, I thought to myself. It wasn’t there when I left to go the bathroom. I replayed what I did before I went downstairs. I remembered writing on someone’s Facebook wall. I remember seeing Jack Nicholson fall into a vat of chemicals and become the Joker. But I couldn’t remember vomiting. I could feel an acidity taste in the back of my mouth and throat.
God damn it.
I vomited.
I was really tired. I didn’t want to clean it up. But leaving vomit out in my room to dry is a level of dirtiness I didn’t wish to cross.
I went back down stairs to get some paper towels to clean up the mess. The mess was fairly extensive. There were several items that were beside my futon which got the brunt of my vomiting episode; one of which was a book I had been reading. For a second I forget how tired I am and how disgusting it all is and kind of laugh to myself about the vomit covered book. It almost looks like either a modern art masterpiece or a critic’s easy way out of describing his feelings for the text.
The paper towels didn’t do much. I needed to get more and I wasn’t nearly done cleaning the mess. I was really tired. I needed a quick solution.
Bingo.
I had a vacuum cleaner.
Five minutes later, I had vacuumed everything up and I deposited my vomit-covered sheets in the hamper.
And I was off to bed.
End of story…
Well for that night.
I woke up the next day and my sheets were on the heater in the hallway leading to my room. They were clean and ready to be put back on my futon. Everything was peachy. I had slept past my hang over. It was 4 pm.
Then I smelled something.
It wasn’t a pleasant smell.
Did I miss a spot?
I was still drunk when I cleaned up the night before. I searched around my room. I couldn’t find anything. Then I noticed the vacuum cleaner. Then the thought occurred to me that maybe I shouldn’t have vacuumed the vomit up.
The smell was definitely coming from the vacuum. I needed to do something.
I wheeled it into the spare bedroom across the hall.
End of story…
At least for the moment the story was over.
I couldn’t escape the odor.
I opened a Magic Hat later that night. I couldn’t finish it. The smell of the beer reminded me of that smell that the vacuum cleaner was omitting. Anytime I smelled it I lost my will to drink.
Every now and again I would sit on my futon while watching TV. The spare bedroom’s door was open. I would crave a beer. I breeze would roll in. The stench would be carried in with the breeze.
I had to do something.
The oddor was driving me crazy. I went into the spare bedroom. The smell was still there and even worse because of the amount of time that passed between when I vacuumed the mess up and this moment. I removed the lid and took out the bag then through it in the trash.
But the odor was still there.
I got some Lysol and dowsed the vacuum cleaner. I sprayed the outside of the vacuum clear. I sprayed the inside of the vacuum cleaner. I sprayed down the hose of the vacuum cleaner, which I had used to suck up the mess.
For a while the smell was gone, but it came back with in an hour.
I had had it. It was enough. I debated putting it out to the corner and waiting for the garbage men to pick it up. But they came yesterday. So I did the next best thing. I wheeled it down to my cellar and put it into the furthest corner.
The smell remains in the spare bedroom. It’s very faint, but it’s still there.
Last night I went down the basement. I needed to get some coke to make a Long Island Iced Tea. I had the day off this Thursday and my plan was to write and have a few drinks. As I turned the corner at the bottom of my basements steps and proceeded to the refrigerator I saw the vacuum cleaner. It was the same vacuum I placed at the other end of my basement. Someone had moved it. The smell was strong and it got worse as I approached the refrigerator. I tried to hold my breath, but I had already smelled the stench.
I could say that the smell made me lose my interest in having a drink and I turned away. But stories about vomit never have a happy ending.
Vomit.
You have to love that word. It sounds exactly like what it is describing. It’s disgusting and vulgar. And when your telling a story about vomit there is never a happy ending.
This story has no happy ending.
It’s a story about vomit.
I had a feeling I was going to vomit on Friday, October 13th. It occurred to me when my friend Sean was driving me home from a bar in Boston, which he and his band had just performed. My world was spinning. I was trying desperately not to look out the car windows. I stared at my feet. I don’t remember what I said to Sean or what we talked about on the trip home. I probably thanked him a bunch of times for driving me home. I had intended to take the T back to my hometown. However to my surprise I learned that the T shut down at 11pm.
At about a quarter mile away from my house I told Sean to drop me off. I was dropped off in the parking lot of a restaurant called Grimsby’s. My world was still spinning and it seemed impossible for me to walk in a straight line. I hadn’t planned to drink that much but after purchasing my first drink with my debit card I noticed a sign which read, “Minimum 25 dollar requirement for debit card purchases.” I had four beers before going to see Sean’s band play at this bar. I would later learn that the drinks were fairly inexpensive. What made things worse is that half way through my tab I decided to switch things up by purchasing some rum and cokes. I then sealed my fate by ordering a Long Island Iced Tea, which I chugged before getting into his car after paying my bill.
I arrived home and put on a DVD then lay down. I got the spins and sat back up. My computer was on. So I got up to check my email. After checking my email along with my Myspace and Facebook page, I turned off my computer and attempted to lie down again. I still had the spins. I needed to do something. I got dressed for bed and went to the bathroom.
When I got back from the bathroom I noticed something. Something was odd. My room was dirtier than usual. It wasn’t so much that there were empty beer bottles everywhere. But it was the fact that there was vomit all over the side of my futon and the floor beside it.
Did I do that, I thought to myself. It wasn’t there when I left to go the bathroom. I replayed what I did before I went downstairs. I remembered writing on someone’s Facebook wall. I remember seeing Jack Nicholson fall into a vat of chemicals and become the Joker. But I couldn’t remember vomiting. I could feel an acidity taste in the back of my mouth and throat.
God damn it.
I vomited.
I was really tired. I didn’t want to clean it up. But leaving vomit out in my room to dry is a level of dirtiness I didn’t wish to cross.
I went back down stairs to get some paper towels to clean up the mess. The mess was fairly extensive. There were several items that were beside my futon which got the brunt of my vomiting episode; one of which was a book I had been reading. For a second I forget how tired I am and how disgusting it all is and kind of laugh to myself about the vomit covered book. It almost looks like either a modern art masterpiece or a critic’s easy way out of describing his feelings for the text.
The paper towels didn’t do much. I needed to get more and I wasn’t nearly done cleaning the mess. I was really tired. I needed a quick solution.
Bingo.
I had a vacuum cleaner.
Five minutes later, I had vacuumed everything up and I deposited my vomit-covered sheets in the hamper.
And I was off to bed.
End of story…
Well for that night.
I woke up the next day and my sheets were on the heater in the hallway leading to my room. They were clean and ready to be put back on my futon. Everything was peachy. I had slept past my hang over. It was 4 pm.
Then I smelled something.
It wasn’t a pleasant smell.
Did I miss a spot?
I was still drunk when I cleaned up the night before. I searched around my room. I couldn’t find anything. Then I noticed the vacuum cleaner. Then the thought occurred to me that maybe I shouldn’t have vacuumed the vomit up.
The smell was definitely coming from the vacuum. I needed to do something.
I wheeled it into the spare bedroom across the hall.
End of story…
At least for the moment the story was over.
I couldn’t escape the odor.
I opened a Magic Hat later that night. I couldn’t finish it. The smell of the beer reminded me of that smell that the vacuum cleaner was omitting. Anytime I smelled it I lost my will to drink.
Every now and again I would sit on my futon while watching TV. The spare bedroom’s door was open. I would crave a beer. I breeze would roll in. The stench would be carried in with the breeze.
I had to do something.
The oddor was driving me crazy. I went into the spare bedroom. The smell was still there and even worse because of the amount of time that passed between when I vacuumed the mess up and this moment. I removed the lid and took out the bag then through it in the trash.
But the odor was still there.
I got some Lysol and dowsed the vacuum cleaner. I sprayed the outside of the vacuum clear. I sprayed the inside of the vacuum cleaner. I sprayed down the hose of the vacuum cleaner, which I had used to suck up the mess.
For a while the smell was gone, but it came back with in an hour.
I had had it. It was enough. I debated putting it out to the corner and waiting for the garbage men to pick it up. But they came yesterday. So I did the next best thing. I wheeled it down to my cellar and put it into the furthest corner.
The smell remains in the spare bedroom. It’s very faint, but it’s still there.
Last night I went down the basement. I needed to get some coke to make a Long Island Iced Tea. I had the day off this Thursday and my plan was to write and have a few drinks. As I turned the corner at the bottom of my basements steps and proceeded to the refrigerator I saw the vacuum cleaner. It was the same vacuum I placed at the other end of my basement. Someone had moved it. The smell was strong and it got worse as I approached the refrigerator. I tried to hold my breath, but I had already smelled the stench.
I could say that the smell made me lose my interest in having a drink and I turned away. But stories about vomit never have a happy ending.