The Harm in Asking: My Clumsy Encounters With the Human Race

by Sara Barron

  I made the choice not to argue about it, however, as I was too afraid of my molester. I just asked him—nicely—to please let go of my collar. I tried, for the sake of a smooth exit, to tell him I was sorry.

  “I am sorry,” I said, and then turned to the sister. “And to you, miss: I am sorry.”

  Having apologized, I took off my high peep-toe heels and made my way out the front door. I wasn’t wearing socks or pantyhose, but I figured I could walk barefoot the ten minutes it would take to get back to my dorm.

  As I walked, I reflected.

  I had tried getting drunk—I was still currently drunk—and yet I had not been sexily hoisted nor perceived as a lady of wild taste and ability. All I’d been seen as, really, was a woman who farted on better-looking women. And where was the coolness in that? It was mysterious in its way, and possessing of a certain level of darkness, but it was nonetheless the wrong variety of both. Mysterious like I talk to myself while I shit. Dark like I pee in a cup when I’m tired. It wasn’t any inch of what I wanted.

  To compound the issue I couldn’t relax for so much as an hour once I got home before I myself had to vomit. I threw up in my awful freshman toilet in my awful freshman dorm. As I did, I thought, This is fucking disgusting. I’ll never drink like that again.

  It’s a common enough promise for someone in a regretful situation, but the noteworthy thing here was that I meant it. I never drank like that again. From that day forth—from the moment I left that sorority party—I always drank in moderation. I established a system. I was surprised to see it worked.

  Several weeks after the sorority party I was invited to another party thrown by a fellow acting student. Determined not to repeat the trauma from those weeks before, I went out the afternoon of the party and bought myself a stopwatch. I planned to use the stopwatch to keep track of my drinking. I would allow myself one drink per hour, for up to four hours. I would use the stopwatch to time the intervals. I would stock up on bagels prior to the party for proper alcohol absorption, and each time I had a drink, I’d eat a bagel.

  What this all meant, then, was that I attended this second party wearing a stopwatch, as well as a backpack that was large enough to carry many bagels. It didn’t help me look cool or mysterious, although I nonetheless tried acting cool and mysterious. When my stopwatch beeped, I tried turning it off in a “Bond, James Bond” kind of way. When it was time to eat a bagel I tried doing so daintily, in the fashion of an alluringly troubled woman of mystery.

  I had this sneaking sense, though, that my efforts weren’t successful. At the second party someone said, “Cool backpack,” and although I said, “Thank you,” I did also intuit that what he meant, really, was, “That is not a cool backpack.”

  Then someone else said, “Oh. Hey. Where did you get that bagel,” and I said, “I brought it in my backpack.”

  And he said, “Do you have any more? I’m totally starving.”

  And I said, “I do have several more. But I have to eat them all.”

  “You have to eat them all?”

  “Yes. I have to eat them all. I don’t like … Ooops! Sorry. That’s my stopwatch. I can have another drink.”

  There was nothing cool about this situation as a whole, nor the conversation in specific. Neither parties nor alcohol were helping me look cool. They were rather like a drought to the tiny garden of my mystery. It seemed I’d have to find another way.

  6

  The Boogie Rhythm

  A-toot, a-toot, a-toot diddelyada, toot. He blows it eight to the bar, in boogie rhythm.

  —THE ANDREWS SISTERS

  I’d like, for a moment, to discuss the problem of my gas.

  I fart with unimaginable frequency and force. That said—and before venturing further—I’d like to acknowledge the philosophical divide.

  There are two schools of thought when it comes to flatulence.

  “Farts are funny,” says the first, propagating the belief that although farts are gross and immature, they are nonetheless amusing.

  “Farts are awful,” says the second. “They’re the easy and pathetic jokes of those with nothing else to say.”

  It wouldn’t stand me in good stead to pretend I don’t lock horns daily with issues of originality, with the issue of being disgusting. I acknowledge those components. It’s just, I still think farts are funny.

  I have always been a problematic farter. My need to fart is constant, and has given me the lifelong sense that I live on borrowed time. How long until I fart again? How long till that next bomb goes off? It’s a sense of impending doom, and it’s with me every second that I’m not alone.

  As a kid, I’d overhear complaints of surrounding adults: “That kid just farted. She just farted loud, and then kept right on walking.” I spent my high school years muscling my anus shut, suffering gas pains that felt (I’d later learn) like exploding ovarian cysts. As an adult, I’ve been prevented from doing yoga. It’s simply too dangerous doing ass-in-air stretches in public.

  It is not an issue of what makes it better or worse. It is not like, Oh, I’ll just lay off the broccoli. The solution is not simple. The problem is never not there. Like the stalk is to the broccoli, farts are part of who I am.

  My close friends know about my problem, and have, at different stages, described the sound of my emergent gas in different ways. I’ve been told, “You sound like a screaming ibex,” “You sound like an Austrian man blowing an alpine horn,” “You sound like a dirt pig who is retarded.”

  While the sound is impressive, it’s got nothing on the odor.

  One time I ate an entire fried onion and then went to visit my friend Maggie. While together, I farted nonstop for three hours.

  “You smell INSANE,” she’d said. “It’s like mold and milk have been left to brew in some dank, dark space, and that dank, dark space is your body. I mean, your farts don’t even smell like farts, really, so much as they smell like … decay.”

  “And sulfur?”

  “Yes. There’s a sulfur component as well.”

  AS TO MY point about the philosophical divide, some friends find this funny, while others find it gross. My friend Kate and her husband, Chris, for example, find me really gross. I spent this one Labor Day weekend with them in a hotel room in the Hudson River Valley. We’d chosen a room with a balcony and two double beds—one for them and one for me—and although we had an okay day of it, I ruined our night with my gas. It was so profoundly bad that Chris and Kate made the eventual decision to pay for a rollout mattress. They put it on the balcony and made me sleep outside.

  I had no problem with this course of action. I remember what I smelled like on that day, and it was frankly fair enough.

  My issue was just that I thought Kate, Chris, and I should have been able to laugh about it the following morning.

  But instead they acted pouty.

  “You guys, what is the problem?” I asked. “Why are you still in a mood?”

  “Because you ruined the hotel room, okay?” said Chris. “Even after you left, it was gross.”

  Then Kate piped in.

  “Honestly, Sara. It was like you rubbed your gas up in the fabric or something.”

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t, okay? I did not rub my farts up in the fabric.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “No, you know what I mean.”

  The three of us did not travel together again.

  WHILE THE FRIENDS who find it gross can be a challenge, the ones who find it funny are a joy. My friend Rachel, for example, finds it really funny. My friend Rachel is a joy. I’ve known her since high school, and back in 1995 she made a point of telling me how much she loved it when I farted. She told me never to hold back. She said, “I’ll plug my nose if I have to. I just love how hard it makes me laugh.”

  “I love how it hard it makes you laugh,” I said, and happily obliged. There was one occasion in particular where Rachel and I were sitting in her bedroom when I felt an explosion en route. I made the choice
to let it fly and, if I may say so myself, it was a standout—a real champion—lasting five seconds, and sounding rather like a small machine gun. Rachel laughed hysterically, which made me laugh hysterically, which, in turn, forced the rapid-fire gas out for a victory lap.

  This time, though, it emerged in perfect rhythm with my belly laughs:

  Ha *fart*! Ha *fart*! Ha *fart*! Ha *fart*!

  Rachel laughed harder, which made me laugh harder, which made the cycle carry on for another thirty seconds.

  It was a sweet exchange made even sweeter when Rachel’s dad called up from downstairs.

  “Rach!” he called. “Can you check if the dog took a dump? Something down here smells disgusting!”

  It took ten minutes following Rachel’s father’s request before either she or I had the necessary breath to speak. When finally we did, Rachel lifted her hand to her face. She wiped at her tears. She said, “Your ass-reach is so … wide, my friend. You are the farting master.”

  IT IS NOT just friends who know about my problem. Boyfriends also know. The issue’s too pervasive for them not to. The time always comes when I have to lay it out. I’ll say, “I am going to fart,” and then I’ll fart, and then I’ll say, “Yes. So I have farted.” This will then segue into a monologue about the extent to which I am plagued by my riotous ass. It’s a horrible burden, but at the same time it’s an effective bellwether for the relationship itself. If the boyfriend answers, “Oh! Thank God we’re at that stage!” that means he and I will grow closer. But if, conversely, the boyfriend acts bewildered, that means I’ve kicked us onto borrowed time.

  I had a boyfriend named Jon from ’05 to ’06, who fell into the first of these two groups. When I told him of my gift, he said, “Well, the thing is, I can top that. I am able to fart … on command.”

  “Really?” I said. “Well, okay. So then fart on command.”

  “Fart with you, you mean?”

  “Fart with me, I mean.”

  And then: He did. Jon farted along with me. It was … wonderful. We felt … so close.

  Jon was a Boston native and Red Sox fan. During the course of our relationship I lived in a studio apartment in which the bathroom was right beside the bedroom. One morning, I awoke with Jon in bed beside me. I had spent the previous night at a Yankees game. I was not one for baseball usually, but I had accompanied a friend there because it was her birthday—I’d felt atypically obliged—and anyway, in the row in front of us there’d been a gaggle of Japanese tourists. They’d spent the entire game cheering for Hideki Matsui.

  “MOTT-SUE-EEEEEEEEEEE!” they had cheered. “MOTT-SUE-EEEEEEEEE! MOTT-SUE-EEEEEEEEEEE! MOTT-SUE-EEEEEEE!!!!!!”

  Eventually, the phrase cemented itself in my brain, and that next morning I walked into the bathroom, sat down on the toilet, and went:

  “MOTT-SUE-EEEEEEEEE! *Burp* *Fart*”

  “MOTT-SUE-EEEEEEEEE! *Burp* *Fart*”

  I should clarify: I did not say the words “burp, fart.” I made the actual sounds.

  I remember the event because the sound and smell were the things that woke Jon up that day. He’d said, “First off: fuck the Yankees. Second off: your ass just woke me up.”

  I DO NOT hide what I am from my boyfriends. I do, though, hide all that I am on first dates. It is a challenging task, to be sure. However, after much trial and error I’ve arrived at a solution to accommodate an inconvenient truth:

  You must not hold in your farts if you are dating.

  Doing so results only in painful cramps and bloating, and what good does that do in whatever slimming outfit you’ve got on? So. Your only choice is farting. Not loudly and proudly. But sneakily. Craftily. Cleverly. My time in the field has taught me as much, and—as I am pure of heart and generous of spirit—I will list my tactics here:

  1. When asked on a date, suggest an outdoor bar. Rooftops, back patios, and sidewalk cafés. That’s if the weather’s permitting.

  a. If the weather’s not permitting, suggest a crowded bar. You want other people there. You need someone else to blame.

  2. Avoid apartments and cars at all costs.

  a. If you cannot avoid a car or an apartment, make sure to keep a window down, or open.

  i. If it’s warm outside, great.

  ii. If it’s cold outside, say you feel carsick. Or say that you like the fresh air.

  b. If the smell is so intense that the fresh air cannot save you, act as though the stench crept in.

  3. Gas-X does not work.

  a. Colonic irrigation sometimes does.

  4. If, despite your best efforts, you wind up passing gas in the most humiliating way, I do encourage you to act. Preemptively strike. So you’ve farted. Fine. Just say, “Wow. Did you just … sorry. Never mind.” Just like you’re appalled. Your date will be thrown off since, as adults, we do not think the one who smelt it really dealt it.

  Remember—and exploit!—this simple truth.

  In conclusion, I’d like to point out that I am not actually pure of heart and generous of spirit. Yesterday, I raced an obese lady for a seat on the subway having figured it’d be good for her to have to stand. I’ve been feeling guilty ever since, searching for some manner by which to redeem myself. Anyway, I’ve since admitted farting. I’ve since explained stealth farting. I do believe that, karma-wise, I’m set.

  7

  The Super Silver Haze

  I was not—I am not—a true non-drinker. However, my alcoholic consumption is so controlled and infrequent, that actually, ostensibly, I kind of am. As evidenced by my stopwatch, backpack, and bagels, by my vomiting and farting, I am poorly suited to drinking and/or partying.

  I learned this about myself early at the start of my college career, and while I did accept it, I did not let it lay rest to any of my old desires. I still craved a means through which to seem cool and a little bit wild.

  In pursuit of my goal, I climbed one rung up the substance ladder. I tried my hand at marijuana.

  I’D MADE IT all the way through high school without ever smoking pot. Because my peers who did, they’d been either (a) popular, or (b) in possession of a filthy head of hair. And I’d avoided the folks with filthy heads of hair, and was myself avoided by anyone/everyone popular.

  College, however, changed this situation by widening my social pool. Toward the end of freshman year, I met a guy named Howard through my friend Kate, who, to remind you, is not/was not partial to my gas. Howard was Kate’s boyfriend years before Chris, and I absolutely loved him. Howard laughed at my gas and projected an overall air of cleanliness. More to the point, he smoked a lot of marijuana. I felt comfortable around him, so when eventually he offered me a joint, I decided to accept.

  I sure was glad I did. Marijuana, as a substance, seemed to suit me. I smoked only joints, though. I never inhaled from bongs. Bongs evoked images of high school students with filthy heads of hair, whereas joints—the physicality of smoking them—made me feel like Lauren Bacall. I liked my pot joints long, so I could hold them like a cigarette. I felt cool in that position, and this coolness helped compensate for the minutes following the inhalation when, without fail, I would eat huge amounts of cereal and suffer minor hallucinations. I would hallucinate any number of the following:

  1. That my throw pillow had come to life.

  2. That I was a duck.

  3. That I was on a boat decorated in an eighteenth-century baroque style.

  These hallucinations were pleasant and entertaining, and though I lacked the confidence and dexterity to do what’s called “packing a bowl” or “rolling a joint,” I nonetheless called myself “a pothead.” The term conveyed a wild side that juxtaposed nicely with my Lauren-Bacall-smoking-position elegance. I claimed the title despite never smoking pot more than once a week. I’d find myself in the path of Howard’s extra-long joints, and I’d accept them, saying, “Thanks. I’m a pothead. I love a toke.”

  “Do you mean to toke?”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  The process of me actually
going out and buying drugs was less feasible than the second coming of Christ. Despite my growing experience, I still could not determine how much marijuana was “an eighth,” nor interact with dealers of drugs, nor sellers of pipes. Such activities connected me to the illegality of the drug, and despite my previous experience shoplifting packaged ham, illegal activity made me really anxious. I could handle smoking pot in Howard’s dorm room. Or maybe—maybe—in a park if there were other people smoking too. Handing over a wad of cash, however, in exchange for a tiny plastic bag was another thing entirely. I was too afraid of being caught. I imagined that if ever I let a drug dealer into my dorm room, I’d be arrested by the SWAT team that would follow in behind.

  An unwillingness to buy pot and/or its related paraphernalia puts a cap on the seriousness of the relationship that develops between a pothead and her pot. At least, that’s how it was in my relationship. The two of us lasted six months.

  IT WAS THE summer between freshman and sophomore year of college, and I spent it back home in suburban Chicago perfecting my recipe for chocolate-covered pretzels. The only scheduled break in the routine was a visit from Howard and Kate. They were in the midst of a cross-country summer drive and had included a stop in suburban Chicago as a personal favor to me.

  Kate, Howard, and I decided we ought to spend our time together in Chicago doing something festive. We researched various activities and learned that the night of their visit would correspond with the Illinois leg of the Lilith Fair tour. As we all loved the artists of the Lilith Fair, we all promptly purchased tickets.

  Kate and Howard were slated to arrive at my parents’ house in the early afternoon, but then they hit traffic on the way and arrived three hours late. We had very little time before we hopped back in the car to drive another hour to where the concert was in Tinley Park, and so ran frantically around trying to remember the various items we wanted to take with us.