Installation 21: Compromising Positions Part II previous
James drove as if he were in a Hanna-Barbera road race, speeding through yellow lights and squealing around corners. Phoebe hugged herself against the cold; she couldn't get warm. Why couldn't she get warm?
“James, we left my coat!”
“What coat?” James asked, although he showed no intention of going back.
The motion of the car as it angled and curved, coupled with the fact that she was having trouble focusing, made Phoebe sick to her stomach, which held an astonishing amount of hummus, mixed nuts and red wine. She put all her energy into keeping from heaving it all up. She thought she’d done a good job until they got to James’s house and he came around to pull her from the car.
“What the fuck?” he yelled.
“What?”
“What did you do? I don't believe this.”
“What did I do?”
“You're all wet.”
“Oh.”
And then she could feel it, the rapidly cooling liquid soaking her underwear and pants. She'd pissed herself at some point, probably when she was trying so hard not to vomit.
“It’s not my fault!”
“You're going to have to go,” James said, jaw rigid. “Do you think you can catch the bus?”
“I gotta poop,” Phoebe said and started to cry. The piss in her underwear was turning icy.
James looked from the house to her and back again, clearly struggling to make up his mind about extending this courtesy.
“Fine,” he said. “But you’d better not make a mess.”
Andrew met them at the front door, a big smile on his face.
“You're back...”
“She's here,” James said and stepped aside to reveal Phoebe and her wet crotch. “She needs to use the bathroom and then she's leaving.”
Andrew’s smile faded and he folded his arms. “I thought you said…”
“I can’t anticipate everything, can I?” James yelled. “I can’t anticipate that she’s going to piss herself.”
“Does she have a substance abuse problem?” Andrew asked.
“I can hear you,” Phoebe said.
“Oh, right,” Andrew said. “Be careful in the bathroom, please. I just cleaned it.”
Phoebe went to a small bathroom just off the kitchen. Forgetting her earlier desire to relieve herself, she stripped off the wet pants and underwear to wring them out in the sink. The effort made her hot and dizzy. The underwear (thankfully, one of her best pair) slid from her fingers and landed on the floor with a damp-sounding thwack. She held onto the sink as a major upheaval convulsed her stomach and leaned over, noting as she did a stainless steel soap pump and the spotless porcelain before she let go the floodgate.
Having to look down at the contents in the sink made her stomach seize again and her mouth fill with saliva. Blindly, she turned to where she though the toilet was but missed by about two feet. A hot spatter of vomit hit the tiled floor.
She knelt down next to the toilet. There was a fuzzy mat on the floor and she lowered herself to allow her cheek to rest against it. It was soft and comforting, like nuzzling one’s face into Big Bird’s armpit. She closed her eyes. Really, she thought, she felt so much better now that everything was out of her stomach, although it did smell awful in the bathroom and her bottom was catching a draft. She just needed a few minutes to rest and then she would get up, put her pants on and walk out of the house with her head held high. She would go to the bus stop. Just a few minutes. If only she didn’t feel so sleepy… If only her mouth didn’t taste like burning.
She fell asleep.