An Inglorious Night
Southport, Connecticut (Thanksgiving, 1992) — Had I known the pumpkin pie was to be my downfall with Bridget I would have declined. But it was not something I could foresee. I was 21-years old and had just arrived at Bridget’s beautiful colonial home donning a Letterman’s jacket and clean-cut haircut. I was hoping to impress and did at first.
I joined Bridget’s family in the living room after arriving and soon became a firecracker setting off one snappy one-liner after another. I worked the room like a politician at a Rotary Club event. Bridget’s father became a fan after I had regaled the table with a story of how a guy in our dormitory had taken a Bob’s Big Boy coupon, written PRESS PASS on the back, and somehow found his way to the sidelines of the Notre Dame-Miami football game the year before.
I could not handle any more food after gorging myself all day but I wanted to be polite as her mother handed me a slice of the gelatinous pie, which wiggled before me like a Cuban salsa dancer and was smothered in rancid whipped cream that smelled like bad scallops.
I had met Bridget while we were interns in Washington, DC the summer before. She was working at the Smithsonian and attending UCLA, which was more exciting than my college choice of Notre Dame: cold, Catholic and in the middle of Indiana. We had kept in touch and arranged to get together while we were both home in Connecticut for Thanksgiving break. Her uncle would be there later in the evening and he loved Notre Dame and talking about college football, which he had played years ago.
“Uncle Tommy is a real ham,” she warned.
After downing the pie, Bridget and I moved to the basement to watch a movie. We were 20 minutes into the Civil War movie Glory when my stomach started making beastly noises. There was a demon inside my belly and I began praying that I could stay the course for the duration of our date. After 30 minutes, the noises became so audible I was trying to blame them on the gunfire from the movie.
I was about to exit for the bathroom when Bridget put her head on my shoulder. I couldn’t pass up this opportunity and had started masking the issue by coughing every time a huge stomach rumble erupted. I was like a 3-point shooter in basketball who finally gets into a rhythm. The problem was that the gas pains were getting more voluminous and protracted. Momentum had changed from the hour before when I was holding court in the living room.
“She’ll be back for Christmas,” I thought while sweating and fighting to keep the date afloat. I had no ambition of getting anywhere with her unless she wanted to be the victim of Fat Elvis crushing her on the sofa on which we snuggled. By then a more experienced version of myself would have politely gone home citing legitimate illness. But I was young and convinced I had the chops to stick it out.
My Waterloo occurred when I mistimed one of my coughs … and coughed too hard in line with a battle scene. I felt like a marathon runner on Mile 24 who loses all bodily control. The runner feels it but keeps running as there is a race to finish. The crowd groans but while they recognize the humiliating sight, even giggle as he or she passes by, they shout words of encouragement. They respect the runner, who is in the midst of accomplishing a great feat and is so focused that even the loss of bodily functions doesn’t thwart him or her. But I was not a Kenyan Marathon Champion on the home stretch. There was no moral victory behind the humiliating predicament I had now found myself.
I was now forced to get up. I delicately found my way to the bathroom and soon confirmed that it was not a false alarm. I panicked, tore off my underwear, and tossed them into the garbage. I returned quickly so as not to draw more attention to my grave predicament. By now I just needed to focus on Morgan Freeman and hang on for dear life. Miraculously Bridget cozied up again, which gave me some much-needed confidence that I could salvage the night.
Unfortunately, my respite was interrupted when we heard the door to the basement open. Bridget’s father came downstairs with a very drunk Uncle Tommy in tow. He had arrived late and now wanted to talk about everything Irish even though the closest I had gotten to the Emerald Isle was seeing a fellow student dress up as a leprechaun — in Indiana of all places.
“Have you ever been to Cork?” Uncle Tommy asked while getting so close to my face the smell of stale whiskey made my eyes water. “I was just there. F**king beautiful!”
Uncle Tommy insisted on talking about Ireland and Lou Holtz. He was attempting to slur through an impression of the football coach and his trademark lisp. A monsoon of spittle was pouring down on me as he switched on the basement light and asked me to get up to demonstrate what I recall was a blocking technique he had employed while playing football at Fordham.
After I had staggered up, the father quickly jerked his eyes past me. Uncle Tommy was putting his hands all over my irritable stomach and grabbing my shoulders with his sausage fingers when he peered around me and joined Bridget’s father in staring at the sofa. Uncle Tommy blurted out, “What the hell is that”? I now joined them in discovering that right where I had been sitting was now a large brown circle.
Bridget then peered slowly over at the brown death moon in horror. She recoiled at the site and her look quickly transformed into one of disgust and shame, likely at herself for bringing an animal into the house, on Thanksgiving no less.
The site killed the conversation and the two men mercifully departed up the stairs. Uncle Tommy’s booming voice was unfortunately still audible: “Look like the lad had an accident. That’s just f*&ng embarrassing.”
Bridget and I carried on politely and finished the movie but we were now at a respectable distance from each other. Bridget gripped the sofa’s arm like a tense airplane passenger experiencing turbulence, while I had sufficiently distanced myself from the toxic brown stain. I grabbed a nearby blanket, which hugged the other arm of the sofa, likely only for decoration, and scooted on top of it. But it now awkwardly served as a booster seat, forcing me to look down on my date and Matthew Broderick. My chances of seeing Bridget ever again had been buried like Captain Shaw’s valiant 54th Massachusetts Infantry Regiment.
As I bid farewell to everyone, I looked like another failed coach after a loss. I shook hands with the family, Bridget’s father and Uncle Tommy on my way home to the loser’s locker room. The family knew something was amiss but they were professionals. They handled it with aplomb. I politely hugged Bridget and walked out with one less article of clothing whence I came.
I spent the rest of the weekend breaking down the night’s transgressions analytically, like a football coach after a dramatic loss. There were so many mistakes to unpack. I kept returning to the carnage that I left behind. What was the reaction when whoever was tasked with taking out the bathroom garbage found a shredded pair of Fruit of the Looms? Evidence of a night with so much promise gone so awry.
