Losing It

by Alan Cumyn

  “I like doing things with reality,” she said. “I like cracked lenses. Throwing words, the way they go together.”

  “Precisely! You’ve taken the words and put them together. And nobody else on earth would have done it the same way. It’s authentic, completely unique. Mystifying, and yet -” And yet what? He took a breath, then said, “Poe was also one of the few people in his day to realize that in poetry the words, the sounds, are far more important than their mere meaning.” He paused, then began reciting: “ ‘Once upon a midnight dreary, While I pondered weak and weary, / Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore -’ You see, the sound is the beauty of it. ‘While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, / As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door -’ ”

  Her smile was the sun blessing the earth as seen from an airplane miles above the ground and Bob was acutely conscious of his good fortune, to be with her, to be him, in his skin, his privileged position. It must have been something like what Poe felt at those private parties in his honour when he would stand in the middle of the drawing room holding a glass of wine and recite the entire eighteen verses of “The Raven,” the words spilling so felicitously one to the next, the eyes of all riveted upon him, every female wondering what it would be like to be married to a famous poet, a sensitive, suffering soul, a genius mind, wayward boy.

  They talked easily, comfortably, with an energy that did strange things to time, made Bob unsure, at one point, whether the flight had just begun or had lasted weeks and weeks. It was an unsettling state because he felt as if he had no control. He gave in to it, and then was ripped awake, back to the old reality.

  “I’m sorry,” Bob said, closing the briefcase and standing abruptly. “Back in a minute.” He didn’t want to appear flustered, but his digestion was delicate and there was usually little warning. He was halfway down the aisle when he realized he’d brought his briefcase with him, and had an idle thought that he should return it, but decided to keep going. Bob struggled into the little cubicle, locked it, then lowered his trousers and backside in one efficient movement that almost ended in disaster since the toilet seat had been left up. But he caught himself in time using the handrail on the right side, managed to reach behind and drop the seat, then settled down … to an expulsion of gas, that was all. Still, it would’ve been embarrassing enough.

  He stayed to coax his bowels, idly opened his briefcase and took out the special package. It felt insubstantial, not something for which one would pay $149.95. Bob opened it gently. The object was encased in plastic bubble wrap and, once freed, looked at first glance like a woggly sea creature not meant to be exposed to the light of day. There were three long dangly straps, like tentacles, and in the middle puffed-out balls of pubic hair – too light; they didn’t quite get the colour – and an ancient, irregular … mouth.

  This isn’t the right time and place, he thought, and refolded it in its bubble wrap. He then tried returning the bubble wrap to the envelope but it didn’t want to go. It had been tight to begin with and now the bubble wrap and purchase had somehow become too big to fit back in the envelope. The more he tried the more the envelope ripped.

  There was a sheet of instructions.

  Welcome to your new Lighthouse® Portable Vagina®. The PVII® has been design engineered using the finest latex and synthetic hair to bring the closest possible approximation to natural, working female functions. Please follow the installation and maintenance instructions carefully so you can enjoy your new vagina for years to come.

  Bob looked at the diagrams. They showed, in stages, two detached hands, large, but with longish, almost female nails, wrapping the straps around the hips and under the pubic area, then fastening them behind with discreet metal hooks. Another pair of detached hands tucked the penis and testicles into a pouch that rested behind the vagina. An insert showed how a man, properly fitted, could pee while sitting down using the latex vagina.

  Great care has been taken to ensure that when worn properly all normal female urinary functions can be performed using the PVII®. Please note that, as with a natural vagina, you will have to wipe yourself after peeing. The PVII® should also be soaked daily for thirty minutes in warm water and baking soda and then rinsed with fresh water and lightly towelled dry after use. To ensure a long and full lifespan for your PVII®, do not wear it more than five hours per day.

  Bob looked at his watch, peered at the instructions again, and half stood, to get a better sense of how the thing would fit. The pouch for his male organs felt firm and secure, and the straps had just enough elastic to pull it all comfortably, but not so much that his circulation was at risk. The hooks were not so easy. He fiddled, got them the wrong way round several times before it finally felt right. When it was all in order, thin, smooth latex flaps neatly folded over to hide the hooks. The skin colour was remarkable, and Bob liked having lighter pubic hair – it looked younger.

  But oh my, to glance down at a beautifully discreet vagina, to feel so tucked-up and transformed! It was wonderful. He looked at himself in the ugly, dully lit mirror of the airplane washroom. Or rather, he looked at the vagina, fine as it was, perfectly passable, and with a trick of the mind didn’t focus on the trousers and underpants wrapped at his knees, at the hairy belly button, the ponderous suit, the tops of his shaggy legs.

  He sat again. It felt … remarkable. A little cramped. He couldn’t push his thighs together too harshly. My new toy, he thought, and chuckled to himself in the safety of the little washroom thirty thousand feet above the ground. Every vibration of the airplane was magnified in the tiny chamber and the smell of disinfectant and other people’s waste products should have been nauseating, he thought. But this was a bubble of magic, a pause outside the normal, like sex or a compelling dream.

  He had a pee. It was extraordinary. It took the longest time to allow himself to release, then when he did there was a moment of horror as the urine went … well, somewhere, but not out his new urethral outlet. It seemed to get caught up in the tubing of the mechanism. But after a pause there it was, gushing out in a series of fine streams, exactly with a feminine peeing noise: wshhh! wshhh! He had to be careful to tilt his pelvis downward and direct the stream, and to keep his thighs apart so that he wouldn’t make a mess. He dutifully wiped the latex and artificial hair with toilet paper. It didn’t feel at all like his own tissue – it was rubbery and dead. But the illusion was striking.

  Someone tried the door then and Bob froze. But the door was locked, of course it was, and right away he could hear the sound of the adjacent door opening and then the lock being rattled shut. The shock startled him enough, however, to make him remember that Sienna would wonder why he’d been gone so long. He stood up then and reached around to fiddle with the clasps at the back of the PVII®. Just as he managed to unhook one of them, the pouch holding back his penis and testicles released, and with it a shocking amount of urine fell onto his trousers and underpants. He was too surprised to curse, right away. Then he did curse, and reached down to stop the last drips, but brushed the contraption instead and released a last rain of pee. He almost ripped the hooks, then, trying to get the thing off, and the tension of his last tug sent the creature whirling crazily and spraying a mist around the cubicle, on the mirror and door, his trousers and shoes and jacket.

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” he said, and flung the vagina into the sink. His trousers were soaked at the crotch almost as badly as if he’d peed himself without any artificial help. He pulled up his shorts and pants but realized it was no good, there was a dark, wet, smelly stain down his front. He took off his shoes then - the floor of the cubicle was wet and he shivered with revulsion – and stepped out of his trousers and underpants. At that moment the airplane tilted and Bob was thrown against the wall and bonked his knee hard on the handrail. The airplane levelled and Bob picked up his trousers, which now had grit stains on both legs to go with the urine and water marks. He took a deep, calming breath, then said “Shit!” seve
n times in succession.

  The seatbelt light began strobing and there was a gentle knock at the door. A flight attendant said, “We will be landing soon. Could you please return to your seat and buckle in when you’re ready?”

  “Certainly,” Bob said, his voice somehow sounding calm and deep and unconcerned. Landing soon did not mean right away. He looked at his watch. He would have at least fifteen, maybe even twenty minutes, he thought. No need to panic. Though he could feel the tilt of the plane, had to adjust his balance as he washed off the portable vagina and dried it carefully on paper towelling. He reinserted it in the bubble wrap and then spent a bit too long trying to fit it back into the torn envelope. He forced himself to focus and prevail. Finally, when the package was safely back in his briefcase he allowed himself to check his watch again. My God! It didn’t seem possible. Nearly six minutes had passed already. He picked up his urine-stained trousers and ran tap water over the crotch, briskly rubbed in liquid hand soap and rinsed. He tried to wet just the worst-stained section but the plane dipped and much of the rest of the trousers got soaked. Little bounces of turbulence followed and Bob fought to keep from ending up in the toilet himself. He barked his shin against the seat, stepped back and tripped over his shoes, then sat hard on his opened briefcase. One of the supports snapped and a clasp bit him on the buttocks like a rat.

  “Jesus!” he shrieked.

  “Are you all right, sir?” the attendant asked outside the door, her voice superficially calm but infused with concern. Bob didn’t answer right away and the attendant pressed, “Do you want us to come in?”

  “No! No! I’m fine!” Bob asserted, trying hard to sound fine. He clambered back to his feet, grasped the door handle firmly in case they tried to open it. Of course they could unlock it from the outside if they wanted, he thought.

  “You should return to your seat immediately, sir. The landing light is on.”

  “Yes. Thank you. I’ll be finished in a minute,” Bob said.

  He picked up his drenched underwear then, stuffed it in the waste bin and wrung out his trousers in the sink. They were almost entirely wet now, besides being stained and badly wrinkled. He looked around for a hot-air hand dryer but there wasn’t one, there were just paper towels from the bin. Useless, practically, but he pulled out several, spread them along the legs of his trousers, then rolled the trousers and pressed down to squeeze out the moisture. He could feel the precious minutes sprinting away.

  He quickly unrolled his trousers, withdrew the damp paper towelling, stuffed it in the waste bin, then brushed at the many wet flecks of brown residue left by the paper. Five minutes left, perhaps seven. He took the last of the dry paper towels and repeated the process, rolling and squeezing. His ears popped as the plane headed earthward. He swallowed hard three times, furiously unrolled and brushed at his trousers. Awful, sodden disaster. He twisted one last time, harvested a few more grudging drops. Trapped, he thought. There was nothing else he could do. Reluctantly he stepped into the sorry pants, pulled them up. The plane began rattling as if the wings were going to fall off. He zipped and buckled himself, then shoved his wet socked feet into his shoes and tied the laces. His briefcase was ruined. He could force the top down but then the back left corner would spring out.

  “Excuse me, sir. Please take your seat now!” came the flight attendant’s voice outside the door. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes! Yes!” he said. He unlocked the door so that the occupancy light would go off. But he took an extra moment to examine himself in the mirror: he was dishevelled, filthy, pale with panic. He splashed water on his face, ran his fingers through his hair, smiled bravely. Then he propped his broken briefcase on the tiny sink and pressed the various corners in a final effort to make things right. He was still fiddling with it when the plane touched down on the runway, bounced once before all wheels smoothed onto the tarmac. Bob was thrown in the air and jammed his hand against the light fixture on the ceiling before he came slamming back down. He felt his back wrench and then when the engine thrusters reversed to slow the plane he caromed off the toilet and into the far wall. “Hnnn,” he said, like a hockey player slammed against the boards, but too dopey by now to react any more sharply. Despite himself he laughed.

  Finally the plane stopped. He could hear people gathering their belongings. He picked up his injured briefcase, clasped it under his arm to keep the contents from spilling out, looked at his reflection one last time.

  There was nothing else for it. He pulled open the door, stepped out cautiously.

  A young flight attendant was upon him at once. “Are you all right, sir?” she asked. She was tall and slightly heavy, had dark red hair pulled back severely and overly anxious make-up.

  Bob held his briefcase in front of his trousers, pressed it closed in the corners with his hands. “It’s okay,” he muttered, then he brightened, gave her a clear-eyed smile. “I’m fine,” he said.

  The aisle was jammed with people waiting to deplane. Sienna stood, looked at him with concern. Bob gave her a hurried wave, then began wedging his way back to his seat. He was full of the oddity of the moment, a precarious sense of how the next step might change everything, take him over the precipice he’d been walking so long he’d almost forgotten it was there. He should have been terrified, but he had an oddly detached thought. In my shoes, right now, he thought, a twenty-five year-old would flee in panic; a fifteen year-old would kill himself! But I’m fifty-four.

  And there she was, gorgeous, confused, twenty-one, looking at him with such a questioning gaze. “It’s just madness,” he imagined saying to her. Calmly, soothingly. “It’s just a little madness.”

  “There you are!” she said. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” And really he was. “It was awful!” he said. “You wouldn’t believe it. I turned on the tap -”

  “My God, you’re all wet!” she said.

  “– and water started spraying everywhere. It was ridiculous. And the door was jammed so I couldn’t open it.”

  She started laughing. She was magnificent. Her teeth looked as if they’d been stolen from a toothpaste commercial and her eyes shone dark as a northern lake in August under a wild moon. Stop it, he thought. Stop being so damned irresistible.

  “I’ve never -” he started to say, but he had, of course, and he would again. And he didn’t need to finish, either, because the line was moving now, he just had to put one foot in front of the other and keep his face composed.

  4

  It’s hard to know where you are or what you’re supposed to do. If only they’d tell you! But they don’t. They put things in the food. It’s the brown stuff. And the drunken man with the puffy lips takes your food. Reaches right over. Doesn’t speak English. Why do they let these people in? They drool and his hands shake like … like nothing will ever stay still for ever and ever amen.

  This is what they do: they put you in the bad place. When you make a mistake. Over just stupid things. It isn’t fair. She could take the stitches out and try again. She had the book. And Mary Hoderstrom would help her because she never makes mistakes.

  “I want Julia,” Lenore said. The Italian man laughed at her, reached again for her brown thing. She took her fork and poked it at his fingers. All because of one silly. She put the stitches in the wrong way but there were things you did to make it right. She could tell you in a minute. She had to get the book.

  “Are you finished, Lenore?” the fat woman asked her. Everyone was brown or Italian or smelly or fat. This girl was all of them at once.

  “Yes!” Lenore said. “I’m finished!”

  “Then I’ll take your plate. How did you like your breakfast?”

  Lenore was already up and started to say but then stopped, because if you make a mistake, that’s it.

  “Did you like your sausages, Lenore?”

  If you don’t answer then they can’t take points off.

  “What about your toast?”

  Lenore pushed in her chair and the droolly
man stabbed her last sausage. They don’t have them in Italy. Because of the war.

  “And your toast? Did you like your toast?”

  “I’m going to call Julia,” Lenore said. “This is ridiculous! Mary Hoderstrom could have helped me!” She started walking down the hall. Nobody tried to stop her. It was all in the book anyway.

  But where did they put her room? Her books were in her bedroom, on the shelf with the pictures. You go down the hall, past the bathroom and kitchen, past the spare room and the kids’ rooms, past the pictures of Julia and Alex, past Capt. Buzbie and Miss Muffin. But they changed it. Vaguely, Lenore could remember Mary’s room being something like this. But why would they put her back in Mary’s room? It was so long ago. Nobody told her what was going to be on the test.

  She tried one door and another and another. Some of them were locked and some weren’t. In one of them an old bat said, “You aren’t supposed to play cribbage!” and dashed her foot against the bed. She was stark naked and her breasts drooped like a witch’s. Lenore drew herself up and said, “I can play cribbage with anyone!” and left.

  “Can I help you, Lenore?” someone asked. The Italian woman who smelled nice. It was a pity, so attractive! But she’d have a hard time finding a husband.

  Lenore said, “I’m trying to find the book.”

  “What book?” the Italian woman asked.