my puke story One day many years ago I brought a tuna sandwich to work for lunch. Maybe I should have put it in the refrigerator. It didn't taste bad but I usually eat sort of fast. My stomach started gurgling about an hour later. I felt sort of queasy, but not like I was going to hurl.
I decided I should head home. It was about a 20-minute drive. As I drove, I realized that the tuna wanted out. I managed to hold it down at red light after red light. Finally, about two blocks from my apartment, I couldn't hold it any longer. I was on a residential street so I pulled over and flung open the car door.
I had the presence of mind to know that I didn't want tuna hurl in my car, but the seat belt caught me square across the throat as I lunged. It pulled me back into the car while I pushed to lean over the asphalt. I must have thrown up six times while also being strangled. There was a large puddle of vomit on the road. It felt so good to get Charlie Tuna out of my writhing gut, but I was also two blocks from freedom and the privacy of my own john.
I always wonder if I threw up because I knew my apartment was within reach, so I let my guard down for a moment and the hurl saw its chance. Eventually I sat back up, assessed whether I was done, then drove carefully home. It was now dark outside. As I got out of the car and walked up the path (I was wearing this ugly green trenchcoat that I later pitched because I couldn't look at without thinking of bad tuna), I noticed a car slowly driving past. Someone must have seen me hurl and followed me home. They probably thought I was a drunk. I doubt they thought, "I bet that guy has food poisoning." It reminded me of the time a few months later when I was in New York City and this guy driving a van just opened the door, leaned out, and hurled a few times. He wiped his lip and closed the door. I love that town!
Anyway, I went inside and sat on the toilet for four hours, as the gods were not done with me. Yet somehow I knew that this was good — it was a natural cleansing, done the hard way. By the time I went to bed, I knew there could be nothing in my gut but healthy tissue lining taking a deep breath. Years of greasy Big Mac residue had been purged — ride the back of that tuna straight to hell, you scum. I also remember my feet getting completely numb, so that whenever I had a break I would wobble back to bed and then go Ah Ah Ah Ah as the blood rushed back to my toes.
Being a conscientious city dweller, the next morning I took a snow shovel and a bucket of water and walked down the street to clean up. There was not a trace of puke anywhere. I searched up and down the block, thinking I had forgotten the exact spot. I even checked under some parked cars. God forbid some mom parked her Suburu and stepped out and plop!... I wouldn't be able to live with myself. It hadn't rained, and there was no drain nearby, so all I could conclude was that someone tromped out of their house or stopped their car and cleaned up my puke.
Is that the sign that you're a great person — or incurably weird? Maybe the stray cats ate it — a Roman feast! Only now, years later, can I eat tuna again, and I bury my nose in it. I have not puked since, although I have thought about a saltwater cleansing. The whole experience was almost .... sexual.