The Potty Mouth at the Table Read online

MOM

  Fine. She was at school, you know she’s teaching there, when she opened a Diet Pepsi while the kids were at recess.

  CUT TO BATHROOM DOOR. SILENCE.

  CUT TO MOM.

  MOM (CONT’D)

  Are you listening to me? This is a very important part of the story.

  LAURIE (THROUGH PHONE)

  I’m all ears.

  FLASHBACK: CUT TO LINDA, A SUBURBAN VERSION OF LAURIE, WITH BLONDE HAIR, MANICURED FINGERNAILS, PERFECT MAKEUP, SITTING AT HER DESK IN A CLASSROOM AND WEARING A PINK VELOUR HOODIE. SHE OPENS THE DIET PEPSI.

  MOM (V.O.)

  Usually, she says she gets a glass of ice with her Diet Pepsi, but this time, she didn’t. I don’t know why. She just didn’t.

  LINDA LOOKS AT THE CAN, STICKING ONE MANICURED FINGER IN IT AND SUDDENLY PULLING IT BACK OUT, AS IF THE SODA WERE BOILING WATER. THEN SHE SHRUGS AND POLISHES OFF THE HOT CAN OF SODA IN A MATTER OF GULPS.

  MOM (V.O.)

  She drank it very fast, and all of the bubbles went to her chest! But she said the pain was so big in her chest that she had to hold her breath! The pain, the pain!

  LINDA’S EYES GET WIDE. IT ALL GOES BLACK. ONE SECOND. TWO SECONDS. THREE SECONDS.

  CUT TO A BLURRY VISION OF SOMETHING GRAY, WHICH COMES INTO FOCUS AS A TEXTILE. FROM THE RIGHT CORNER, SOMETHING DARK SPREADS QUICKLY INTO THE FRAME. AN AUDIBLE, SMALL HISS OF CARBONATION IS HEARD.

  MOM (V.O.)

  Then, the next thing you know, she woke up and she was looking at carpet. She had no idea where she was. Finally, she came to and realized she’d fainted.

  CLOSE-UP OF LINDA’S EYES DARTING BACK AND FORTH. PANIC. PANIC. THE FAINT SOUNDS OF CHILDREN’S LAUGHTER ECHO IN THE BACKGROUND. A SPARROW WHISTLES.

  THE SHOT GETS SHAKY AS SCOPE OF THE CLASSROOM IS QUICKLY TAKEN IN, A CUT TO THE LEFT AND A CUT TO THE RIGHT. THE ANGLE GAINS HEIGHT, DIPS A LITTLE, THEN SIMPLY CUTS WILDLY ABOUT.

  SHOT OF A FAT MAN IN A TIE LOOKING DOWN. A NONDESCRIPT MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN JOINS HIM. AND ANOTHER. AND ANOTHER. THE JANITOR STANDS THERE WITH A MOP IN HIS HANDS. A CROWD OF LINDA’S COWORKERS FORMS.

  MOM (V.O.)

  She got herself to the phone and called her principal, who came over right away.

  NONDESCRIPT MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN

  (BENDING OVER AND TALKING LOUDLY)

  Linda, what is your husband’s phone number?

  LINDA (V.O.)

  I-I-I don’t know. Are you angels? Why am I not looking down on my body? Is it because Safeway gave me too much change and I didn’t say anything? But I watch Lifetime TV for women. That’s like extra credit for heaven.

  CUT TO MOM, WHERE AN ANGRY LINDA WALKS INTO THE SHOT (WEARING PINK HOODIE) AND GRABS THE PHONE OUT OF MOM’S HAND.

  LINDA (V.O., CONT’D)

  I did not say that. Mom has her facts all wrong. And it wasn’t a Diet Pepsi. It was a Diet Vanilla Coke!

  CUT TO BATHROOM DOOR.

  LAURIE

  So Diet Vanilla Coke attacked You? Not diet pepsi?

  MOM’S KITCHEN: CUT TO LINDA.

  LINDA

  Yes. And you should know that I never let go of the Diet Vanilla Coke. I held on to it the whole time.

  CUT TO CLASSROOM: A HAND WITH MANICURED FINGERNAILS GRASPING A CAN OF DIET VANILLA COKE, FALLING FORWARD IN VERY SLOW MOTION.

  CUT TO BATHROOM DOOR.

  LAURIE

  What do you mean? What happened to it? Did it land upright?

  CUT TO CLASSROOM: THE CAN, STILL WITH THE HAND CLUTCHING IT (SLO-MO), COMES IN BRUTAL CONTACT WITH THE GRAY CARPET WITH AN ECHOING THUD! SODA SPLASHES UP AND OUT OF THE MOUTH HOLE, LIKE A TSUNAMI.

  LINDA (V.O.)

  Well, not really. Most of it sprayed all over my students’ desks.

  CLOSE-UP ON DESK SURFACE. DROPS OF HISSING BROWN RAIN FALL RELENTLESSLY.

  SILENCE AS THE CRACKLING OF THE SODA DIES OUT.

  PULL BACK FROM THE CAN, AS IT IS NOW TIPPED ON ITS SIDE, LEAKING LIKE AN OIL RIG, PULL BACK, PULL BACK, UNTIL A STRAND OF BLONDE HAIR COMES INTO FRAME, THEN MORE STRANDS, THEN A HEAD, AS THE POOL OF SODA OVERTAKES AND RUSHES THROUGH THE BLONDE HAIR. FIZZLING IS HEARD.

  LINDA (V.O., CONT’D)

  But most of it soaked my hair. What is that clicking noise? Is that the phone? Do you think President Obama is listening to us?

  CUT TO LAURIE, HOLDING HERSELF UP IN THE BATHROOM DOORWAY, LAUGHING SILENTLY WITH TEARS STREAMING DOWN HER FACE.

  MOM’S KITCHEN: CUT TO LINDA, LOOKING INTO THE PHONE WITH ANNOYANCE.

  LINDA

  (THROUGH PHONE)

  Are you there?

  CUT TO LAURIE, STILL PROPPED UP IN THE DOORWAY, STILL SILENT, NODDING, THEN WIPING AWAY A TEAR.

  LAURIE

  Uh-huh.

  LINDA (THROUGH PHONE)

  Anyway, that wasn’t the worst part. Before the paramedics wheeled me out—

  CUT TO LAURIE, RAISING HER HAND.

  LAURIE

  Wait, wait—you called 911?

  LINDA (THROUGH PHONE)

  (HEAVY, DEEP SIGH)

  Someone thought I hit my head on the way down.

  CUT TO CLASSROOM: LINDA LOOKS LIKE A GULLIVER SMOOSHED INTO A TEENY-TINY DESK, HER HEAD BACK, WHILE A NONDESCRIPT MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN FANS HER WITH AN OPRAH MAGAZINE. PRINCIPAL LOOKS ON.

  NONDESCRIPT MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN

  (PICKING UP A STRAND OFLINDA’S DRIPPING HAIR)

  We should call someone. This isn’t blood but it could be plasma or brain water. She saw angels! Linda, did you see the Virgin Mary?

  PRINCIPAL

  No, no, no. This is a Lutheran school. No Virgin Mary talk. That could affect our funding.

  CUT TO MOM’S KITCHEN: LINDA IS EATING A COOKIE.

  LINDA

  So the worst part was that when the paramedics were wheeling me out to go to the hospital so I could get an EKG, a brain scan, and blood work done, one of the paramedics—

  BACK TO CLASSROOM: LINDA IS ON A STRETCHER. ALL COWORKERS ARE GATHERED AROUND. SHE IS HOLDING THE DIET VANILLA COKE CAN ON HER ABDOMEN. A PARAMEDIC STANDS NEXT TO HER WITH A CLIPBOARD.

  PARAMEDIC

  Weight?

  LINDA

  (WITH EYES CLOSED)

  That’s okay, sir. I’m in no hurry to hear that I’m probably going to die today.

  PARAMEDIC

  No, I need your weight, ma’am. Your weight. (Pats his belly to emphasize)

  ALL HEADS OF COWORKERS TURN TOWARD LINDA.

  LINDA

  Oh. My weight? Oh. Um. One hundred and, um . . . (Whispers something inaudible)

  CLOSE-UP OF NONDESCRIPT MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN.

  NONDESCRIPT MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN

  (SHAKES HER HEAD, LOOKS AT PRINCIPAL, MOUTHS, WITH GREAT EXAGGERATION)

  Lowball.

  BACK TO LAURIE, STLL STANDING IN BATHROOM DOORWAY.

  LAURIE

  You told them? You told them how much you weighed?

  BACK TO MOM’S KITCHEN.

  LINDA

  He asked me! I had to!

  BACK TO LAURIE, NOW IN KITCHEN, OPENING PANTRY.

  LAURIE

  No you didn’t! You did not! They’re not the Gestapo! He didn’t know! Paramedics aren’t psychic weight guessers! You were lying down! That takes like forty pounds off right there! You should know these things!

  LINDA

  I couldn’t lie. I was in front of my principal.

  LAURIE

  Your principal saw you lose consciousness because you drank a hot Diet Pepsi too fast!

  LINDA

  Diet Vanilla Coke.

  LAURIE

  Well, believe me, the moment soda dripped on his shoes from your head, respect was long gone.

  CUT TO LINDA.

  LINDA

  That is not true. He makes sure I have ice every day in my room now.

  CUT TO LAURIE.

  LAURIE

  That’s not respect. That’s just cheaper than being sued by the parents of thirty kids who just watched their thirsty teacher black out afte
r slamming a soda that she left in her car for too long.

  LINDA

  It was only out there until lunch.

  LAURIE

  So, how are you?

  BACK TO MOM’S KITCHEN: MOM IS LEANING OVER LINDA’S SHOULDER.

  MOM

  (YELLING TOWARD THE PHONE)

  Nothing was wrong. Can you believe it? A brain X-ray, nothing was wrong, they said. After all of that. The doctors were stumped. It’s a medical mystery.

  BACK TO.

  LAURIE

  Really? No one detected any drama? Because I understand that Linda theater is now in its forty-second season.

  BACK TO MOM’S KITCHEN.

  MOM

  No, no trauma. There was no trauma, was there, Lin?

  LINDA

  No. They would have kept me there until dinnertime, as it was, all I had that day was the Diet Vanilla Coke. I didn’t even get Jell-O.

  MOM

  They don’t feed medical mystery patients. It could upset the tests!

  LAURIE

  I can’t believe that there’s no test for Diet Pepsi attacks.

  LINDA

  Well, from now on, I’m sticking to iced tea.

  LAURIE

  I’d watch it if I were you. A reckless squeeze of a lemon and before you know it, everyone knows how much you weigh.

  LOUD CLICK IS HEARD ON THE PHONE LINE.

  LINDA

  I heard that clicking noise again.

  LAURIE

  (WHISPERING)

  It’s President Obama!

  MOM

  (VERY LOUDLY)

  I didn’t vote for you! I only vote for mavericks!

  LAURIE

  He already knows that, Mom. He can hear you shouting through the TV.

  MOM

  I’m hanging up. I just wanted to let you know that your sister was okay.

  LAURIE

  Why, did something happen to Lisa?

  LINDA

  (VOICE FADING AWAY)

  Mom, I was going to eat that cookie! No, we don’t have the same germs.

  PHONE LINE GOES DEAD. A SUDDEN BOOM IS HEARD, LIKE SOMEONE HAS JUST FALLEN DOWN THE STAIRS. LAURIE RUNS INTO THE HALLWAY, WHERE HER HUSBAND IS SPRAWLED OUT ON THE FLOOR, APPARENTLY UNCONSCIOUS. ON HIS BELLY IS A CAN OF DIET PEPSI HE HOLDS IN ONE HAND; THE CIRCLE OF THE LOGO HAS BEEN MADE INTO A FACE, WITH THE EYES X’D OUT. ON HIS CHEST IS A NOTE WITH HIS HANDWRITING ON IT. IT SAYS, IN LARGE BLACK LETTERS, “NO ICE! CALL 911!”

  AND SCENE.

  STRIPTEASE

  I wasn’t sure what to expect when I found myself hanging out in a hotel room with half a dozen girlfriends on a weekend getaway and all of a sudden one of my friends started disrobing.

  We were all chatting away, catching up, when she announced that she had something to show everyone and started lifting up her blouse. Now, given that cocktails play a dominant role in this sort of weekend, I wasn’t about to rule out the possibility that my friend had not only already hit the sauce but punched it directly in the face. And no one else seemed particularly unnerved by the fact that one of us was taking off her shirt for no apparent reason, so I decided to play it cool, too.

  There I was, playing it cool, as she showed her back to the girls sitting on the bed, most of whom were smiling and saying things like “Amazing” and “Oh, wow.” So I was excited to see what she had hidden under her shirt—maybe it was a beautiful La Perla bra, or even a tick bite that radiated indications of Lyme disease. But when she turned around, there was no way to ever be prepared for what I saw, which was a flaming cupcake.

  Now, on any other cupcake occasion, count me in. I’ll have frosting up my nostrils in seconds flat. But in this case, the flaming cupcake was enormous—big enough to reach across her entire back, from shoulder blades to waist, flames licking her spine: a gigantic tattoo, parts of which appeared still to be bleeding.

  The good news is that I did not say the first thing that popped into my head: “Holy shit . . . that’s a bloody cupcake.” The bad news is that I did say the second thing that popped into my mind, which was “You’ll never make enough money in your lifetime to get that thing removed.”

  After a stunned silence in which ten pairs of eyes were on me, including those of the proud bearer of the curiously behemoth cupcake, I had drawn a showstopping blank. Looking at them, I was stunned. Really? “Amazing”? I thought to myself. Our friend just ruled out any chance of running for Congress or, however unlikely, walking a Christian Dior runway, and all you guys can say is “Amazing”? Everyone was staring at me, and for a moment I was very confused, until I finally got it. Ha-ha. They were playing a joke on me. It was a joke—a joke! A wave of relief washed over me as I laughed at myself and replied, “Oh, thank God. It’s just a decal from Hot Topic! For a minute I was scared shitless you really had a flaming cupcake etched on your back for all eternity!”

  Except no one laughed back. I caught a couple of them looking silently at each other, clearly as stunned at my response as I was when I saw the Chernobyl-size cupcake. And then my friend, the one who now had a flaming cupcake etched on her back for all eternity, turned around, and with the same flames shooting out of her eyes that she had on her back, told me sharply, “It’s not a decal.”

  We didn’t talk much after that. She didn’t speak to me for . . . well, really, ever again.

  The lesson here is that a giant cupcake tattoo is typically an indication of two things: (1) Sister got her hands on some crystal meth, and (2) Sister smoked that crystal meth and kept smoking it until she had been awake for seven days and then stumbled into a tattoo parlor with a really bad idea that she had quickly sketched on a napkin from Carl’s Jr.

  If your friend pops up with a gargantuan flaming cupcake the size of a hubcap or medium-weight primate tattooed on her back, without question, throw her into the nearest cargo van and get that girl into rehab. Now. That’s really your one and only option.1 All I ever say now whenever anyone reveals a tattoo to me, whether it’s an earlobe-to-collarbone declaration of “Child of the King!” scribed in Old English–type letters (exclamation point and quotation marks included) or a hummingbird that looks more like a protozoa, is, “Oh, wow. That’s amazing.”

  * * *

  1. This would be aside from generally advising against a back tattoo, especially since tattoo “artists” have figured out you have just paid for something the quality of which you will never be able to determine with your own eyes.

  LIVE FROM THE BELLAGIO

  It’s three o’clock in the morning, I’m in a Seattle hotel room, I’ve already thrown up eleven times, and the only thought left in my head after evacuating the rest of my system is: Jesus Christ, I hate falafel.

  I didn’t even want to order falafel. I didn’t. I wanted to order chicken tikka masala or saag paneer at the Middle Eastern/Indian restaurant, but I only had an hour before a reading and I couldn’t, in good conscience, go and talk to people with saag paneer hanging ominously on every breath I expelled. So I went with falafel; it’s a safe bet, I figured—cute, contained, and, added bonus, fried! Falafel can do little to no damage, unless you count the bed of shit-tainted lettuce that it lounged upon like a concubine in a harem.

  With the first bite, I had sealed my fate; by midnight, I was living the nightmare of every traveler: sweating, shivering, and leaning over a toilet in a hotel room like Kate Winslet in Contagion, the only movie in which she kept her shirt on, mainly because her character dies before she can get in a compromised situation with a married man.

  I would have gladly taken off my shirt in front of everyone who was still alive at my thirtieth high school reunion if I could just stand up for two minutes without having to run to the bathroom like a star on Teen Mom hoping to score another cover of In Touch with rumors of another unplanned pregnancy. I was still sick by morning and, without a minute’s worth of sleep, had a decision to make: call the front desk and arrange to stay another night in a hotel I could not afford, or suck it up, get myself tog
ether, and take the train home as planned.

  It was then that I devised one of the worst strategies in the history of mankind. I decided that if I could keep coffee down for an hour, I was good to go for the daylong train ride back to Eugene. True, ninety percent of the coffee was French vanilla coffee creamer—which I do believe is Oil of Olay with corn syrup—but with hot tap water and a pack of instant Starbucks, I constantly strive to make things more disgusting than they ever need to be.

  And in an hour, I was okay. Not so much as a gag went down or came up in those sixty minutes—so I packed my stuff, brushed my teeth, and called for a taxi. I was so relieved I would be home in eight hours that I could hardly stand it; all I wanted to do was sweat in my own bed and drool on my own pillow.

  Things were going great until I was standing in line waiting to get my ticket when I suddenly shivered and realized I had pitted out with a flash episode of perspiration that I call the IRS Sweats, the kind of horrifying chill that envelops your entire body, like when you realize you owe the IRS so much money that you have to make payments.

  Positive I looked like a junkie with flop sweat bubbling on my face, I scanned the room to see whether anyone had noticed . . . until it occurred to me that I was in the Seattle train station. Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever been in the Seattle train station, but I’m sure it will be a nice place someday. There will come a time when tiles won’t be missing from the walls, cracked and dusty plaster won’t fall from the ceiling, and yellow CAUTION tape will not stretch from crumbling wall to crumbling wall—but that day has not yet come. It does, however, make a convincing backdrop for any film featuring a drug addict/hooker/runaway character; in fact, it’s the kind of place that can send anyone immediately into withdrawal. From anything.

  I looked like the president of the Junior League compared to some of what was standing in line with me at the train station. In fact, I would have made a cash bet that if I suddenly yelled “Does anyone have crystal meth?” at least five people within twenty feet of me would have reached into their shoes or pants immediately. I got my bearings as the flash sweat passed and I reassured myself that once I got on the train, I would be fine. I just needed to sit down and stay down. At the ticket counter, I booked a window seat, waiting for the moment when I could rest my head against the cool glass, close my eyes, and finally sleep.