I'm not really hungry, but what the hell. I'm desperate for something to do. The sign above the cafe line advertises "vegetarian lasagne." It looks like something that sprayed out of the ass end of a walrus. But I'm a gamer. My intestines are coated with Teflon. Nothing can bring me down.
Some primitive instinct encourages hesitation. "DON'T eat this!" it screams. But my mind overcomes. After all, this IS a hospital, right? They wouldn't give me something that's not perfectly nutritious.
I waffle as the guy with the spatula behind the counter takes his polyethylene-gloved hand and scratches his ear. If he'd only take the glove off, now I'd have a sanitary meal.
"What's in it?" I hear myself say.
"Noodles, cheese, corn, spinach, guacamole, and mushrooms," he replies. This sounds more like a can of Mexican soup. "I'll take it," I say, much like someone on death row who's chosen the electric chair over injection. Take the manly way out.
He ladles the gruel onto a white plate. I pay and make my way to the long institutional seating. There's a swarthy Italian half-breed who looks as if he should be stuffing bodies into old Pontiacs, and we nod. I glance over and realize he's also chosen the lasagna, and we exchange a knowing glance. Desperation breeds familiarity.
"Is it any good?" I ask.
He forces a swallow down before replying, "I've had worse." This is not the answer I was looking for. But it's actually not bad and it smells fairly good, although its appearance on the plate is similar to something that came out of the wrong end of a sick zebra.
One hour later I'm sitting in the waiting room and suddenly my butt burns like someone inserted one of those swimming pool chlorine canisters. I throw OPRAH! down and run to the nearest bathroom.
Surprise, surprise. There are two stalls in there and I immediately recognize the Bally's Italian shoes and tan slacks under the stall of the Italian stallion. Apparently he's having some fun with the vegetarian lasagna, as I can hear the stall rattling and his feet squeezing against the fine Corinthian leather. It smells like the Hindenburg.
He senses me there in his agony and probably recognizes my red Adidas soccer shoes. He taps against the stall in a sort of primeval Morse code -- "Is that the blonde guy from Chicago?" "Are you in as much pain as me?"
Apparently not. I only feel like committing suicide. This guy is much worse off.
I've never had surgery, but I briefly consider calling for an orderly and requesting a trolley trip down to the ER so they can remove this toxic refinery from my anal cavity. I raise my legs as if about to give birth, and press them against the door in a sort of tactical maneuver to try and eject my liver, colon, and anything else in the way of this awful dark side of the moon.
It sounds like a scat gun, only louder. It comes in rolling waves of stench, but I have lost the ability to care. The Italian stallion and I have thrown all caution to the wind and are seeking the sort of relief that does not involve embarrassment. The stall doors begin rattling again as he tries to unearth the final birth pang of survival. I envy his advanced battle and only hope that I'll be as brave when the moment of truth arrives for myself.
I look over and discover that there is no toilet paper. But that hardly matters. I wonder if I'll make the pages of some publication if I do not survive this. Dying in a hospital bathroom has been done, I am quite sure, but I doubt if its been done in Rockford. It would distress my uncle and interrupt his recovery.
I pass out.
Hours or minutes later, I am not sure, but I hear a knocking at the stall door. The Italian stallion is genuinely concerned for my survival. He has taken on the forces of darkness and emerged a hero willing to help another man go down the path he has been down.
"You OK in there?" he says. I see his shoes in front of the door and realize that he is able to walk. He's a better man than me.
"If I don't come out of here in six minutes, send a doctor in," I hear myself grunt. I have no idea why I said "six minutes," but it seems logical.
When I finally emerge from there I see no sign of the Italian in the waiting room. Perhaps he is out buying a life insurance policy.
I crawl out to my car and drive to a Best Western motel and check in. I'm not making it back to the big city tonight. I spend the next ten hours on the undersized pot. I know that I should go the emergency room, but somehow I cannot bring myself to tell them that I was poisoned in the cafeteria. Three days later I still am having problems. My uncle has been home for two days.
-- Spewter Carniverous