The Last Shitstorm of Winter

There are plenty of types of suffering. We, as humans, engineer new ones every single day. But there is a unique despair to being trapped in a place with only one commode concurrent with companions being afflicted with bowel distress.

This little prefecture of hell came to be one late winter night. All that was left of the last snow were dirty mounds populating the gutters and shady spots in the city as well as the persistent chill that cut straight to the core of the shitty tenement we shared. Our apartment was (nominally) a two bedroom, one bath. The second bedroom was once likely a small office or large closet, but the layout suited us well enough. We afforded rent with our four joint incomes. W<e qualified for the apartment thanks to Andy’s exceptional photoshop skills. Only two of us (Andy and I) were on the lease but we were good enough neighbors that no one ever told on our long term ‘guests’. Our only offense was the persistent pot smoke smell leaking out of every sagging door frame and rising floorboard. Luckily our neighbors were of a disposition not to mind. They had their own problems anyways, if the late night parking lot screaming matches or frequent “past due” notices pasted on their doors were anything to judge by.

We were happy to make this apartment home. We filled the crumbling skeleton of exposed rafters and dry rot with our own peculiar presences. The potted plants whose health and condition waxed and waned with Clara’s. She was a bit bi polar and the only one who could be bothered to water them. The old jazz music I only ever cared for while drunk, pouring out of Wil’s old vinyls. Scraping the grooves of the tables for weed crumbs when we inevitably ran out of flower. Game nights, never finished before someone passed out drunk or got into an argument about the rules. The odd guests and couch crashers that Clara and Andy seemed to conjure out of thin air, and who would stay anywhere from a day to a month. The rituals of people who cohabitate.

All that’s gone to shit now. A smell as baked into the walls as the pot smoke at this point.

The incident in question was precipitated by a stroke of fortune of all things. The recent freak snowstorm coincided with the closing of a local luxury grocer. Think a bougier Whole Foods at a higher price point and an emphasis on fine wines and cheeses. Their business model proved untenable and they were forced to close. It just happened that on the weekend of their closing sale a snowstorm blew through. As a result, no one went. As a result of that they threw out everything that remained on their shelves and in their back rooms. The frozen air conspired to keep things fresh. Along came Clara.

The lot of us were no strangers to dumpstering, or shoplifting, for the occasional free meal. We did whatever we could to save a buck. You’d be shocked at all the perfectly functional food thrown away in this country and this was a jackpot. A dumpster overflowing with piles of packaged premium foods, preserved by nature herself. We found hummus, brussels sprouts, broccoli, and bananas. There were soft cheeses, hard cheeses, and crackers to eat it all off of. We found every kind of wheat product from focaccia to farfale, spaghetti to scialatielli. Pasta sauce, pizza dough and pastries baked a few mornings ago. Atop this treasure trove of gourmet goodies was the crown jewel. At the center of it all a whole side of pastrami, grass fed, hand seasoned, shrink wrapped, $112 dollars retail.

It’s hard to say what victual in particular did it to us. Clara claims it was the beef but Andy insists he’s vegan and wouldn’t ever touch it. I’m pretty sure that shithead snuck meat all the time, though I can’t confirm I’ve ever seen him eat any.

The facts are this. We were all afflicted on the same night. Spaghetti carbonara with eggplant night. We all had it, just as bad as the others, with only our own internal chemistries to account for differences. We all voided every scrap of food we’d eaten through the last week of our ill begotten feasting.

Now, as a regular and long time drinker a bit of stomach upset isn't abnormal. I’d arrived at a stage in my life where my self regulation of addiction was working. I’d only thrown up a drink on special occasions, the last of which had passed many a moon ago. When this feeling hit I knew it was something different. Something special.

We were all home that night, the cold had created a sense of coziness and the four of our bodies made for more effective heating than the rattly electric heater in the unit, or the smoky clogged fireplace. Our individual nightly rituals were well underway. Clara scrolled endlessly. I had a glass of something brown in hand. Andy played little games on his laptop and Wil had zoned out taking a dab or six. Something was clearly wrong when he shot bolt upright, eyes full of lucid consciousness. Probably his was the fastest metabolism. He stumble-crawled to his feet, hooked into the bathroom, and heaved heaven and earth into the little toilet. Clara, ever the mother figure while in one of her manic modes, was by his side in an instant. Proffering hope and help in a grating quantity. She suggested water, coke, cocaine, weed and wet wash cloths to ease Wil’s woe. He however was incommunicado. What with his mouth being the gateway to a dimension of suffering by rhythmic cycle of puke, splash and flush. I peeked in long enough to see Wil waving Clara away and trying to hold his beard back from the carnage.

I returned to the couch where Andy rolled a joint. He asked how it looked and I told him bad, like that time in Mexico bad but no cops and that might have been a nicer bathroom than ours. He said, better than me, and added that it was probably all the meat he ate. Just like last time. What sweet hubris. I agreed with a grunt, not a subject worth getting into again.

The sounds shifted to a frantic brushing of teeth, splashing sink water and weary groans. A pale, bent version of our roommate emerged from the bathroom. He sat against a wall and said fuck that sucked. Andy offered him the spliff and we sat and passed it in silence. It wasn’t halfway through when a swirling sound came audibly from Andy’s belly. He looked to Wil who simply shook his head. Andy made every effort to beat it, going so far as vaulting the coffee table, vomiting in midair. To his credit Andy caught his bile in a hand clenched to his mouth and never broke stride. Only a thin slime leaked between his fingers, leaving a slug trail to our only, ill apprised toiled.

Astounded and afraid, the other three of us conferred with only our eyes. Confusion and anxiety was shared by all present. The meeting of minds didn't last long. What happened to Wil, what was happening to Andy, was surely Clara, and my fate as well. Wil’s confusion transformed to disgust. He screamed a guttural rejection of god and a warning to Andy. He fumbled with his belt as he ran. A new form of torment echoed from within the tiny bathroom, with its too low toilet and sputtering sink.

Clara and I crept up on the situation, to see how they’d negotiated it. The smell was solid and foul, far too great a beast for the tiny fan that came on in tandem with the light. Andy was doubled over the tub retching with a horrible hairball sound. Wil sat shitting what was left of his insides out, his legs practically draped over Andy’s spasming back.

Clara and I returned to the living room, sat across from one another and passed the remainder of the joint until it was just another roach in the apartment. We said nothing. Between us had passed the odd affectionate evening, a friendly situation that seemed to pass whenever we found more amorous affairs. We contemplated our shared condemnation now as the churning began in our guts.

It is worth noting that this bathroom had never functioned well at the best of times. The toilet was slow to refill with a handle that oft needed jiggling. The shower with a tub only Clara ever used, that had to be cleared with a plunger unless you liked lukewarm cloudy water around your ankles. The light flickered and the water pressure was weak. It was far beyond capacity as it was.

It turned out that I was to be last. Clara felt it building and first tried the kitchen sink. It was as occupied by dishes as ever. She settled instead on the balcony, losing her beanie over the edge in the process. I checked in on the restroom. Both men now puked side by side into the tub with Wil working the plunger between breaths, while water streamed over his head. It looked like they were tied in a reverse pie eating contest.

My own reckoning was upon me. I grabbed the kitchen trash and heaved into it. One violent projectile column was all I had in me. Like I said, I'm no stranger to vomiting, and pride myself on puking with as much dignity as one can. All the others had moved into their shitting stage and so too I was to join them. I excused myself from the hellscape, grabbed a bourbon bottle on my way out, and left them behind. The biting midnight air was refreshing and clear, like water after a long walk without. I tightassed my way over to a sooty snowpile in the parking lot corner, dropped my pants, and added my own mud to the filthy drift.

Our little apartment was never the same after that. We never recovered spiritually. We got catty about the little things that went by the wayside like cleaning, dishes and whose food and drugs belonged to who. I mostly shit at work now and piss in the back garden. This lease wont be renewed and somehow, I doubt we will get that security deposit back. Some smells can’t ever be scrubbed out.