Friday, April 4, 2008

You've Heard of "Monster in Your Pocket"...

Now get ready for "Puke Pocket."
This is a little story about what happened to me a month or two ago when I went to London. It's a sad story, filled with massive amounts of heartbreaking torment and a small amount of puke. I guess that needs an explanation:

It started out like any other day in Paris. I woke up with a hangover (My good buddy Pieter had insisted that I go out the night before. "No Pete, I have a train to catch at like 8 in the morning, I can't go out." Then, he pulls this one out on me: "Dude. What would Peter O'Toole do?" [Note: I worship Peter O'Toole. Yeah, he's a great actor. Who isn't? No, what I love about the man is his blatant disregard for his own personal safety and the judgments of others. He once told a story on Letterman about how he goes out drinking one night in Dublin with a friend of his. They are piss drunk and decide at 4 am {"not too late"} that they are going to go out "for one last one." They go to this hole-in-the-wall bar and proceed to get even more inebriated. The barman walks up, says "Boys, you've had enough. You'll be having no more." Peter O'Toole looks at him, looks at his friend, and says "Oh no, we'll be having quite a few more." The barman won't serve them....... so they buy the bar. How. Fucking. Bad-ass. I digress....]. That bastard. He knows that I quite curiously admire PO'T. The deal was sealed. So yeah, I go out with Pieter and proceed to get wasted, only to wake up three hours later for a train ride to London. Great idea Matt. Make sure to tell your kids about that one.)

This was sort of your ordinary "subtle pain in the right temple" hangover. Nothing too serious. I get up and realize, much to my chagrin, that I forgot to pack the night before. Oh yeah! I was drinking heavily. In normal circumstances, this would be no big deal. My wardrobe is not too extensive, so it's rather easy to find something that I would like to wear. However, I am going to London. London is trendy. And to top it off, I'm going to London to see a girl who I met on my tour in Paris and hit it off with (hey Andie) and hey, she's pretty damn good looking. I've got to look presentable... or at least somewhat non-vomit inducing.

I throw some clothes into my man-bag, throw on my beloved jacket, check my passport, wallet, glasses, and such, and head out the door. I'm in a bit of a rush. I run down the road, slide into the metro (line 2) and make it to Gare de Nord just in time. Flying past the other commuters, I arrive at my platform and at customs. Cool. Shouldn't be a big problem. If they realize that my visa is one month expired, I can charm the lady behind the glass. Scratch that. The big hulking dude behind the glass. Strike one.

I get up to the counter. "Passport and customs card please." Fuck. I forgot to fill out one of those completely ridiculous "where will you be staying while in London? Why are you going to London?" forms. Strike two. Running to the back of the line, I find the stack of cards (sprawled out, quite lazily and without form, on a small, poorly labeled table). There are no pens on the table. You've got to be kidding me. Alas! No problem. I always carry a pen (and paper) on me at all times in my very special pocket in my jacket. The pen is a sick steel Parker fountain pen (very chic... and over-priced... and pretentious), and the paper is a small notepad that I track my life on. It has all my business notes, all my funny stories I wish to remember, and little musings that I have on the metro. I cherish these two articles, and they are constantly at my side, awaiting my use (I like to imagine that I am a world famous journalist, with a quick wit and a scathing pen, ready to record history at a moment's notice on my small green spiral pad. I softly chuckle to myself when I withdraw my pen and pad, and think "Anderson Cooper ain't got shit on me. Well, except for the fame. He's got that. I'll give it to him. And the good looks. Yeah, he's got that too. Damn, he's a good looking man. That white hair works well. And he's got a TV show... i have a blog. Fuck Coop.")

I reach into my pocket, like I have done so many times before, coyly smile and wait for somebody important-looking to see me pull out my nifty pen and be all impressed:
A shudder courses through my veins.
It feels weird in there.
Like... kind of moist.
My pocket should not be moist.
I look down.
The outside of my pocket is perfectly normal.
The inside, however, is lined with a small amount of some undetermined chunky fluid.
And now it's on my hand.

It looks like a small amount of puke has somehow nestled itself inside my pocket, making itself welcome in the once vacant chasm. Not on it, or around it, mind you. In it. And not loads of puke. Somebody didn't mistake my pocket for a waste receptical and ralph in it. No. It appears somebody put a heaping tablespoon of puke in my pocket. Did I mention: it's on my hand now.

Dilemma: I need my pen. It's inside the pocket. The pocket has puke in it. With ninja-like skill, I retrieve the pen, wipe off excess puke on the table (it was instinctual and a bad idea) and proceed to fill out the customs card. I am gagging thinking about the current situation. I couldn't be more uncomfortable. Is anybody watching this? Did they see my puke-reaction?

"Hey there, could I borrow your pen?"

I look up. There is a rather effeminate dude standing there, blank card in hand. He's talking to me. He needs a pen. Panic. Do I: a)explain the situation and the unknown origin of the puke. b)Welcome to Hell, please sign here.

I've always liked my signature.

I give him the pen, try not to make eye-contact, barely answer his queries, and quickly shuffle away. He definetly noticed the puke.

After thoroughly washing the inside of my jacket and the outside of my beloved pen, I had to part with the notepad. The paper was too absorbant. Honestly, it was a difficult parting. I felt like the old bitch on the Titanic. (No, she's not a bitch. It just sounded cool). Good bye, sweet spiral notepad. You shall be missed.

Here's one to you,

ps. The origin of the puke remains a mystery. I don't think it was my puke; yet the possibility of it being another's puke is difficult to imagine as well. Maybe it's best to never know.

1 comment:

Sebass said...

Dude, are u coming back to Germany at all? I'll be doing an internship in Munich & Hamburg this summer, so maybe we can party together??
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