Cade has long suspected I might be a fraud.
Is it possible for one person to really publicly vomit as much as I have claimed to? How could tsunami-sized waves of nausea come and go so spontaneously? You’d think that if I really hurled that often - in so many environments and on such diverse innocent bystanders - that I’d have permanent congealed gobs o’ barf on my clothes and in my hair.
For Cade to truly believe me, I needed to put my money where my mouth is. Well, where my undigested food spewing out my mouth is.
Last Sunday, Cade and I decided to have a picnic in Central Park. We went to Fairway and bought lemonade, half a watermelon, and a Latin-style rotisserie chicken. Despite having the grocery bag with the chicken attacked by a rabid cocker spaniel, we easily settled in the grass and began to eat. Cade tore at the chicken with his bare hands. Afterwards, he smeared seasonings on his fingers and decorated some cave walls. I squatted and grunted my approval.
After finishing the watermelon - after finishing the chicken - I felt like I shouldn’t have kept saying, “No more for me. I’ll full. Well, okay!” Cade and I stood and cleaned up. He was ready to head back to my place, but I needed to recover. We sat on a bench and watched people jogging. There’s nothing better than to sit in gluttonous splendor and watch other people (people more in shape than you) struggle to finish a five-mile run, right?
Cade and I eventually got up and started to walk to Broadway when my.innards.began.to.churn. Let’s just say that I am not a “regular” person. So when I finally got’s to go, I got’s to gooooo. Cade exclaimed, “Thunder! We’ve got to go before it starts pouring!”
I said, “That thunder is somewhere in my colon! We’ve REALLY got to go before it starts pouring.”
We quickly started walking to Barnes & Noble, which is undoubtedly one of the best places in the country to relieve yourself. (Alas, ‘twould be even better if you could take a magazine or book in the stalls with you). I have to mention that on the way to the bookstore, we passed Cade’s apartment. I could have gone there, but no, Cade had been living alone since his roommate flew home to Morocco for a visit the week before. This meant no toilet paper. Besides, Cade considers the pristine and powerful bathrooms at his workplace to be part of his corporate benefits package.
We passed Cade’s apartment and I started to groan. Cade pointed out a man walking his English bulldog - something that always makes me happy - and I didn’t even stop to pet the dog. Something was amiss.
Cade told me to keep walking and reached for my hand, but I pulled away. “No! I may need these hands to cover my face in the mortifying moment when I poop my pants right here in the middle of 83rd Street,” I thought.
I had to pause and take at least three breathers over a stretch of thirty feet. I squatted, hugging my arms around my knees. Cade, always the thinker, looked worried. “Maybe you shouldn’t squat, Amanda.”
On my last breather, I paused where I felt I needed to. I didn’t worry about where I was. I bent down, my butt grazing a stoop. Cold sweat began to trickle from my temples and I shuddered at the sudden chill.
And then I retched.
I lost all of my picnic right there in four great heaves. That Ronco infomercial guy could only dream of creating a food processer more efficient than I. Between spews, I looked at Cade and apologized. He was a man totally transfixed. It was probably how Benjamin Franklin looked when he flew the kite with the key during that storm - a look of empirical discovery and confirmation.
I wasn’t full of shit after all… Or was I?
Post-puke, I confirmed I felt a lot better. Suddenly, a doorman appeared from the building. He asked Cade to come with him. Leave it to me to vomit right in front of a fancy residential building, one I could only hope to live in someday.
Cade came back to me a few minutes later with a plastic bucket of water. Apparently, the doorman - a very understanding guy who couldn’t afford to live in the building himself - said, “Hey, I don’t wanna bust your chops, but there’s no way in hell I’m cleanin’ that up!”
I leaned against the side of the building, feeling drained and so relieved. Cade dumped the water over the large splash of vomit, sending the chunks afloat to the middle of the sidewalk. He went back inside to refill the bucket and washed most of my sick into the street. Then he brought back a broom to sweep away the clingiest pieces of barf. Meanwhile, the doorman came out to check on me. He asked me if I wanted to go inside and wash out my mouth. I declined. “Hey, when you’re sick, you’re sick,” he said sympathetically.
I guess I had finally proven myself to Cade. I truly am a notorious public vomiter. But Cade proved himself to me, too. He’s the person who cleans it up.
BEFORE (I’ll leave the AFTER to your imagination):
