Rumination

I feel my intestines move. It’s a sudden jerking – spleenwards – and then a quiet simmer. Is this what it’s like for pregnant women, when the baby kicks? Only, instead of a baby, it’s a nest of garter snakes. And the snakes are suddenly cold and they’re looking for a hot stone to rest on, and they drag my balls up into my body with them, as though they were dragging their luggage to the bus stop.

And I wonder: is this a sign? Am I making a mistake? Right now?

It’s weird to feel cold inside, to have ice spreading over and through my stomach right when my armpits are a furnace, a rainforest dripping sweat. A sweatforest. And this damn vest is so uncomfortable – it chafes, it stutters over my chapped skin every time I shift, and it makes a pfrrt every time it slips and friction-burns me.

Making the vest too tight was a mistake. I’ll admit that. But that can’t explain the blurry vision, or how hard it suddenly is to squeeze every moist breath in and out.

“Please get Lorraine,” I tell the Taco Typhoon cashier – a small, older woman who probably took this job because her life didn’t pan out the way she wanted it to. “I need to speak with her.” Yeah, my life isn’t going to not-turn out. I’m not going to let my dreams flit by. My dreams, and Lorraine’s. “Oh, and get me a large Coke. Lots of ice.”

That should help me cool down. My skin’s almost sizzling. Although, maybe I should have ordered a large coffee to deal with the ice in my guts.

What’s wrong with me?

Is this because of the latest fight with Lorraine? Nah. After a million, what’s one more. After all, we’re meant to be. I know that. Soon, she will too.

Is this because I recently started reading that Rumi book? I don’t remember the last time I read poetry. I don’t think we ever covered it in school, and if we did, it was totally forgettable. Was Shakespeare poetry? Whatever.

Rumi’s all right, I’ll admit, but I’m not sure I get it. There’s a lot of poems about drinking, only I suspect they’re not actually about drinking. And quite a few about friendships and dead people. And the way they end, it’s like he suddenly changes the topic, or like he’s been talking about something else all along and it’s gone over my head.

And God.

Lots about God. I think he’s a Muslim – is it okay for me to read his stuff? Will anyone ever know? Not that I’m much of a Christian, I guess. Don’t think I’ve ever really thought about God. Or, I guess, the bigger meaning of things. Of what my place is in the universe, of how we’re all connected. Well, other than me and Lorraine, anyway.

Suddenly my throat tightens and I feel my heart flutter.

Oh my God. Maybe – is this enlightenment? Am I feeling this way because I started thinking about stuff, and I’ve had a spiritual awakening? I had no idea it could be this powerful. Maybe this is a new start for me – a new life. Yeah! Me and Lorraine, we’re going to live a real saintly life going forward, full of grace and all that other shit.

The old woman sets down a big cup, and I hear the ice slosh around inside. Both my hands are full, and I take a moment to weigh cellphone against gun, and then set my phone on the counter, freeing my left hand for the drink. The cup sweats as much as I do, and its waxy flesh dimples under my fingers. And damn – I mean, dang – is it ever refreshing! Cold and dusky sweet and watered down just the right amount, and the bubbles pop and enliven my mouth again. Jeez, is there anything more revitalizing? Ask and you shall receive, am I right?

Suddenly my intestines roil again and my stomach jiggles. It makes a wet slapping noise, like my dad’s outboard motor that one time he took me fishing and I flooded it. And then, at the spearhead of a whole new wave of feverish hot-cold, my sphincter seizes.

Maybe this isn’t enlightenment. Maybe this is that damned El Monstruosidad that I just ate. God damned burrito from hell. Dripping orgasmically with three kinds of gooey cheese and loaded with shredded, grilled, greasy, melty bits of steak – and I know, steak’s one of those meats that’s typically not supposed to melt, but it’s so delicious I’m not going to be the one who asks the Taco Typhoon people questions – and absolutely slathered in hot sauce and jalapeños, stuffed with chicken-fried rice and french-fried potatoes, and a pint of sour cream to wash it down: a pound and a half of heaven in tortilla.

Maybe I should have paced myself instead of inhaling the damn thing in five minutes. After all, you do not eat El Monstruosidad, you only borrow it. And now the bastard wants out.

The old cashier mumbles something, but I don’t hear her.

“What?”

“Lorraine doesn’t have a shift today,” she repeats.

Oh for fuck’s sake!

A flash of searing runs down my esophagus and my fingertips tingle. I drop my soda and almost drop my gun. I am definitely knee deep in mistake.

“What the hell do you mean?” I shout, and the little old lady flinches, and yeah, sorry about that but it’s not really my fault. It’s Wednesday – Lorraine always works Wednesday, 3 to 7 PM. Every damn Wednesday for the past two years. Jesus, it is Wednesday, isn’t it?

“Call her! Get her to come down here right now–”

Suddenly my phone buzzes, rumbling across the sales counter, “OATLEY” on the ID. This guy again.

“What!?”

“Let them out,” officer Oatley says. “They didn’t do anything.”

“No!” And stop asking – I’m busy. “Hey, question for you. What day is it?”

“What day? It’s the fourth.”

“Yeah, no, I mean what day of the week.”

“It’s Tuesday.”

Fuck!

The gut snakes boil again, and I think one of them bites me in the heart or lung or something because there’s a needle of a chest pain suddenly. Then a fist of gas explodes up my throat and I let out – actually, on any other day I’d say it was damn impressive – a hell of a burp.

Oatley continues yammering but I cut him off.

“No!” I say. “I gotta talk with Lorraine Blanks!”

“Lorraine Blanks?”

“She’s a cashier that works here, only she’s not in today. Get her the hell down here!”

“I’ll get her on the phone, but you have to let the others out. They’re not part of this.”

Jesus, this guy – skeezy salesman. Well, I’d love to haggle with him, but it feels like the snakes are pushing for the southern border again, and hard. I’m starting to think El Monstruosidad is beating Rumi.

“Fine, whatever! I’ll think about it – just get her down here!” He mumbles something I don’t catch, and my guts sound like a cross between a chainsaw and a whale. “I gotta go! I’ll call you back!”

I slam my phone on the counter, which is a mistake, because it’s a cellphone. Then I tap ‘end call’ and slide it into my pocket.

“Give me the key to the bathroom!” I tell the old woman.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s for paying customers only.”

I’m stunned. There’s a moment of silence between us, with only my innards idling. She stares up at me, with these big eyes made all the bigger by her glasses, and it’s like she’s as surprised at what she said as I am. Almost like she blames me for it.

A cascade of cramps all along my midsection snap me out of it. I raise my gun and tap my vest with the barrel, dully thudding against the tightly packed compartments, rustling the multi-coloured wires connecting them all.

“Give. Me. The. Key.”

She nods and is all too happy to hand it to me.

I hustle for the john and then turn at the last moment. All the other people in Taco Typhoon – my hostages, I guess (and it’s weird, because I don’t feel anxious with them looking at me, so maybe if there’s any upside to this day, it’s that I’ve overcome my fear of public speaking) – stare at me with their wide eyes and pasty faces.

“Nobody leave! Got that?”

They all murmur and nod. Something clamps down hard on my intestine.

“I mean it! I’ll know if you tried to leave!”

They all murmur and nod again, and – oh God, El Monstruosidad is almost here.

I run into the crapper and just barely get my pants down before judgment day. And then I hear a bell. Not a judgment bell, but the restaurant’s jingly door bell, and the stomping of feet and the squeak of sneakers, because all my hostages flee because of course they do. Because they run away from me just like everyone runs away from me. Just like Lorraine ran away from me.

I’m pretty sure – almost certainly completely sure – she wants nothing to do with me. And yet now, as my innards rearrange themselves and I purge my flesh of the poison of irresistible fast food, I feel a moment of clarity. Do I actually want anything to do with her?

She’s attractive, true, but that’s hardly unique. We don’t have any common interests. We don’t get along. The times we did spend together, the fun only ran skin deep. Anything more was an irritating chore. Maybe it’s not love we had. Maybe it’s convenience. Safety. A distraction from… well, all the other horrid things in life.

I thought I was saving a beautiful relationship, but I think I’m actually just trying to bring a lie to life.

And now, having realized it – in this grungy taco bathroom, on a day of terrible decisions – I am free of her.

Thanks, Rumi. Thanks, El Monstruosidad. I have definitely made some mistakes today, but these realizations are worth it.

I notice the paint on my gun is peeling. The ominous black flakes away in my steamy grip, giving way to chipper orange plastic. The gun’s as fake as my vest, as fake as me and Lorraine.

Oh, God.

They don’t know these are fake. They think I took a restaurant hostage. Well, because I did.

Oh, God.

I don’t want to die!

I call Oatley.

“I’m listening.”

“I want out! I’m surrendering! The gun is fake and the vest is fake and I’m in the john and I don’t want to die and–”

The crapper’s door flies off its hinges and SWAT storm in – somehow. My world’s a blur and a scream. Somehow my face winds up shoved against the grimy floor, the tiles cheese-grating my cheek, and my arms are wrenched somewhere far and away behind me with an exquisitely painful jerk. But, if I’m feeling all this, it means I’m alive.

I’m free!

Well, no, not actually free. I’m probably looking at quite a bit of time for the whole hostage thing.

But I am freer.