I settle back in my chair and close my eyes. After a few minutes, it becomes clear I’m not going to fall back asleep, so I root around for my phone. The seatbelt sign is off, so I grab my bag and dig through it. I find my headphones, but not my charger. I pull everything out of the bag, including all the kid arts and crafts, but I’ve got nothing. I can’t listen to music, and I don’t even know how long I’ve been on the plane. I can’t play mindless games on my phone to pass the time. I’ll give Randy ten more minutes before I bother him for his charger. He doesn’t need it since he’s occupied.
Somewhere in my bag is a paper calendar. I find it at the bottom of the bag. It’s soggy from the gel pack incident earlier, and the ink has bled so the words are impossible to read. There will be another paper copy at home and also one in my email, but I have to wait to check all of that. Amber’s awesome at leaving plenty of reminders since I mix up dates and times a lot.
I’m a little worried about what the next couple of weeks are going to look like with her off the grid. She’s going on some portaging trip in the middle of nowhere. She says she’ll have her phone with her, but I can’t be sure she’ll have reception the whole time. Plus, she needs a break from my shit.
I shove my earbuds in and pretend to listen to music so Nut Peeper will leave me alone. I’ve just closed my eyes to settle in when the stomach cramps hit me again.
I don’t waste any time. Unbuckling my seatbelt, I head for the bathroom, but the occupied sign taunts me with its red, annoying glare. I hope I don’t shit my pants. I look around first class, checking to see who’s missing from their seats. I don’t see Randy, or his friend. Goddamn him. He has to be in the bathroom, boning that chick.
I move in close to the door to check if I can hear any noise inside. Oh, he’s definitely fucking her. I can hear high-pitched moans. I rattle the door, hoping it’s going to make them hurry the fuck up, but all I get are more moans. They’re muffled this time.
“Randy, you asshole, I’m going to shit my damn pants,” I whisper-yell.
I doubt he can hear me, but I knock again. It’s another minute before the door finally opens and the chick steps out. Her face is flushed, her lipstick is smeared all over her face, and her hair is a mess. Her clothes are in similar shape. I don’t think she has a bra on anymore. Her boobs must be fake, because her nipples are pointing right at me.
I’m standing in her way, so she can’t leave the bathroom unless I take a step back.
She pats her hair and giggles as she weaves down the aisle. I can’t decide if it’s because she’s drunk on the fumes in the washroom or because she’s freshly fucked and it’s hard to walk.
Randy’s still zipping up his pants as he leaves the bathroom. “I left you a present.”
He pats me on the shoulder and struts down the aisle. I’m practically holding my ass as I launch myself into the bathroom. There’s pee all over the seat. Randy’s or someone else’s I don’t know, but his gift is a spent, splooge-filled condom in the sink. Fucking asshole.
I grab a handful of toilet paper and rush to clean off the seat because this has gone from a level-one to a level-five emergency. I dry heave over the strong smell and the feel of pee soaking through the paper. I’m going to eat asparagus and piss in Randy’s hockey bag the first chance I get.
My stomach cramps again; I’m out of time. I drop my drawers, grateful for the lack of underwear and sit my ass down. I don’t even care that the seat is still slightly damp. There’s no time for anything but relief as the first wave hits me. I lean my head against the tiny metal sink. I don’t care about the germs or the stink or how badly I need a shower and maybe some medicated pads to soothe my ass. I feel like the new guy in prison right now.
I’m not sure how long I spend in the bathroom, but I triple flush. At some point there’s a knock on the door and someone asks if I’m okay. I might be groaning. I have the cold sweats again. I just want it to be over. I want my own bathroom and my bed. I want my girlfriend. Well, maybe not. I don’t want Sunny to see me in this state, but if we’d been dating longer, and I had the flu instead of this, it’d be nice to have someone comfort me.
Since it was just me and my dad growing up, whenever I got sick he’d make me instant chicken noodle soup. I could go for a cup of that right about now, even if it might come back up, or out, depending.
Eventually the cramps pass, and it feels safe to leave the bathroom. I can’t hijack it for the whole flight. Plus, the smell in here is making my stomach turn in a different way.
I pry myself off the seat and wash my arms up to my elbows in the sink made for dwarves or elves, or whatever small creatures can use these stupid things effectively without getting water everywhere. I check my pockets to make sure I haven’t lost anything, palming my phone in the process. Randy’s damn well gonna give me his charger for making me deal with pee all over the seat.
I steady myself and open the door, aware I’m about to do the gastrointestinal version of the walk of shame. I’ve been in here longer than it takes most people to join the Mile High Club.
At the same time as I try to leave the bathroom, the plane jerks with turbulence. The woman standing outside the door, who incidentally happens to be Nut Peeper, is thrown inside with me. Most of the time I have excellent balance. Today I don’t. She falls into me, grabbing my shirt as I stumble back.
In the melee, I lose my grip on my phone, along with my footing. The phone hits something metal with a concerning clang. I say a prayer to the phone-preservation gods that it doesn’t break, as every last important thing in my life is on that phone.
The door automatically shut me and Nut Peeper in together when she fell on me. These bathrooms are barely big enough for me, never mind adding another body, so maneuvering around in the cramped space is even more difficult. Plus, I’m a little claustrophobic, which is unfortunate since I’m big and it makes most spaces feel small.
“Oh my God. I’m so sorry!” She flails around. It’s the opposite of helpful. I have to brace myself on something to stop her from ending up with her face in my crotch. I put my hand down, and of course it ends up in wet spot. I don’t even want to know if it’s pee.
“It smells awful in here!” She tries to clamp a hand over her mouth and nose, but it manages to get caught in my shirt. All she ends up doing is mashing her face into my diaphragm and knocking us off balance again.
“I ate something bad last night,” I say, as if an explanation is necessary for why it smells like a manure field and a dead skunk combined with whatever crap they put in here to help mask the smell of people’s bodily functions.
I’m going to need to Purell my entire body when this episode is over.
Using the surface I’m braced against for resistance, I wrap my free arm around her waist to stop the flailing and manage to get us into an upright position. She’s still fisting my shirt even though there’s no reason anymore. I grab both of her arms, not caring that the likely-pee on my hand is getting all over her. If it wasn’t for Nut Peeper, I wouldn’t have it on my hand in the first place.
“Stop moving!” I order.
She freezes.
“I dropped my phone. I need to find it before one of us steps on it.”