Killspeak

Peter Lynn would like to write a book called The Greatest Puking Stories Ever Told, and I would like to buy it. Not only for the fact that he’s a good writer, or that he would like to publish it as a handsome leather-bound, but because I enjoy hearing barf stories—and, honestly, who doesn’t? Drunk or sober, young and old, nothing is as sure to involve and amuse as a good vomit story. That time you puked on your pillow and were too tired to clean it up. That time you put a Swiss Chalet meal back in the container it came in an hour after eating it. That time you followed a trail of what seemed to have once been fried rice and whiskey down some stairs to find three underage drinkers comically passing around a soggy paper bag, laughing and saying “If you’re gonna spew, spew in this.” That time you vomited for a large audience.

Some friends and I were returning home from a party at a friend’s place (where the toilet had “R. Mutt” scrawled on the side of the bowl). She lived way up by York University, a long subway ride away from home. We were travelling on a Sunday: the trains were few and far between and the cars were pretty full.

I was spinning. We had all had quite a bit to drink; I had all of the night’s good times souring inside me. Before stepping into the train, I was trying to reassure myself that I did not need to vomit. When at that point, of trying to soothe your stomach with words first imagined and then silently mouthed to yourself, vomiting is inevitable.

My friends weren’t any help. They’re the kind of people who, when made aware of your need to barf, will taunt you, jab you in the stomach, impede your frantic scramble for the washroom. You’ll be throwing up in the bathroom, long past the point of swearing you’ll never drink again, and reach one of those moments of respite where your body is deciding whether or not to retch some more. My friends? They’ll be right outside the bathroom waiting for that very moment to begin to make loud retching sounds, provoking another spell of vomiting. They’ll keep on doing it too, until you’re exhausted, at the brink of consciousness, just as hoarse from the bile as from cursing their names.

When I answered a curious “Are you alright?” with a bleary-eyed nod and a stifled burp, they knew exactly what state I was in. From Finch to Lawrence station, I tried to keep my eyes on the advertisements and the tunnels rushing past the window, away from my friends’ sly grins and fake half-retches. It was awful.

At Lawrence, a group of cheerful young girls came onto the train and sat across from me and my friends. They were sunny, happy, chatting loudly, and perfumed. Their pungent, vanilla-like reek made my stomach churn. I swung against the doors and closed my eyes. I had a wet mouth. It was going to happen.

The doors opened, I rushed out into Eglinton station and met the nearest garbage bin with a big fist of puke. I held onto the garbage and emptied myself. At first it came with strong pumps, but soon became painful and drawn-out, like squeezing all you can from a tube of toothpaste. It was loud. It was gross. It was in full view of everyone in the subway car.

The car driver had left the doors open, perhaps because of a shift-change, perhaps out of kindness (not wanting me to miss the train and have to wait for another). When I had finished, I turned around to see the occupants of the car watching me. They were silent, embarrassed, disgusted. The chirpy early-teen girls were wide-eyed and still. I boarded the train less aware of my acid breath than of the way I was being judged. This was not what the other passengers had wanted to see on Sunday morning. Except my friends. They seemed okay with it.

Lynn, your book idea is great. Think of it: sections dedicated to hasty cover-ups and last-minute dashes, cautionary tales of survival, and leather covers that’ll be easy to wipe. It’ll be a bestseller.