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Livin' with it:
Dinner at the Montrose
by Tom Setto
I had no sooner walked in the diner, didn’t
even get my coat off, and Gary was already starting. “I have
to tell you what happened to me yesterday,” he said.
You see, we have been meeting at that
same corner table at the Montrose Diner just about every Saturday
for15 years. There’re six of us now when everyone feels up
to coming. Others have come and gone, some have died and some
have left town, but Gary and I have been the mainstay. Oh,
and one other thing, except for a few through the years, we
all have AIDS.
“Can’t you wait until everyone gets
here?” I ask. “You know I hate to have to sit through your
stories more than a couple times.” Gary has a tendency to
get a bit over-dramatic. After a few times through one of
his stories it’s like the third or fourth time you’ve seen
Phantom of the Opera: you know when the chandelier is going
to fall—you just don’t have the benefit of a different cast.
Within the half-hour Joey, Miguel, and
Jerome come in. Jenny, our waitress for the last year, brings
us coffee and water and leaves some menus. She knows it will
be awhile before we order and she really doesn’t mind… we
treat her like she’s part of our group and always tip her
well.
Gary has been chomping at the bit to tell
his story. “Well, let me tell you what happened to me yesterday,”
he starts. “You know how gassy I’ve been lately.” We let him
know that we are well aware of his gas. “I was at the mall.
Levis were on sale at Sears and I was looking to buy a new
pair of 501s. I was feeling pretty good and decided to walk
through the mall and do some window-shopping and people watching.
“All of a sudden I got one of those
gas bubbles. You know, the kind that start in your stomach
and slowly work its way into your intestines on its way out,
the kind that you’re not sure if it’s just gas or gas and
more.”
We laugh and start trading tales of gastro-intestinal
woes. Ken joins us during our discussion of wet farts and
just smiles and shakes his head. He’s been with us from almost
the beginning and knows anything goes for our conversation.
“Wait, there’s more,” Gary interrupts. “This one was a bad
one. I was afraid to let it out and risk having to take the
half-hour bus ride home with wet underwear.”
Joey agrees. “You know I just changed
meds and the diarrhea is back. I hate it. I stopped and had
a bagel and coffee on the way home from the doctor last week.
Got a half block from my building and panic hit. Guys, I didn’t
make it. The dam broke as I was putting my key in the door.
I’m still depressed about it; I’m 38 years old. I just hate
it.”
“I’ve been taking Imodium for so
long now it’s lost its effect,” added Ken. We begin trading
stories about our near misses and unfortunate accidents. Jenny
comes over to take our orders and hears part of the conversation.
Nothing surprises her anymore. She’s heard just about everything.
“It must be awful. How do you go
out? I’d be afraid to leave the house.”
“You wouldn’t believe some of the
toilets I’ve sat on.” I told her that when I was on protease
inhibitors I would only go to places that I was familiar with.
I had to know where the rest rooms were and tried to go to
places that had stalls with doors. There’s nothing worse than
rushing in and finding no door, or worse yet, no toilet paper.
Jenny laughs and says, “I hate when that happens.”
Miguel stands up and says, “Speaking of.
I gotta go. Be right back.”
When Miguel and Jerome, who says all this
talk has made him have to go too, return to the table Gary
continues. “Like I said, this bubble hurt. I tried to walk
and clench at the same time but realized that I was walking
like I had already loaded my pants, and anyway, the rest room
was too far away. My only hope was to stand still and try
to let it slowly subside.”
“Been there too many times to count.
I go through more underwear,” adds Jerome.
“Underwear?” I ask. “I made it through
the 80’s and never wore a pair. Now they’re just part of the
wardrobe.”
“Anyway,” I can tell Gary wants
to finish his story. “I decide to stop where I am because
I don’t want people to see me walking like I have a butt plug
up my ass, and hope for the best. I think that maybe if I
pretend to be interested in what is in the store window I’m
standing in front of, that could give me a couple minutes.
“Wouldn’t you know it, I just happen
to be standing in front of Lane Bryant. Not only am I worried
about shitting my pants, now I worry that all the people passing
by think that I’m a big old drag queen. The bubble seems like
it’s taking forever to go away. I feel everyone is staring
at me. I finally feel okay to try to walk but end up stopping
at almost every window before I finally make it to the rest
room and can safely let it out.”
“So, did you go back and buy that
pantsuit you saw in the window?” I ask. Our food comes and
the conversation changes.
After we finish eating we all take turns
excusing ourselves to use the rest room. When we’re all finished
and saying our so longs I say, “Can you believe that six grown
men just spent two hours talking about farts?”
“I can,” Ken answers. “It’s something
we can relate to. It’s just another thing we all have to deal
with. We just learn to live with it.”
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