the trip from hell

7/14/99

I’ve been pooped on in two states today.

Up at 10 and packing. The breakdown didn’t come until about 2. I expected it last night. Then, we were so calm, today the shit hit the fan.

The landlord, Kevin, showed up at 11:30, just as J and I were heading to get some food. The house was empty of furniture, but filled with little shit and messy. Cat hair all over the carpets, shower curtain torn down. Disastrous.

Kevin had the balls to be dismayed that we were still there. He’d scheduled an open house and a few other appointments for people to look at the house. That fucker. He was in and out of the house all day: checking our progress, making conversation. By 5 I’d had enough, and I was snippy when his head appeared at the back door.

5:30 he had potential tenants viewing the house. I was scouring the kitchen, John was slamming shit around in various parts of the house, and the landlord’s bringing people through. Students filling out applications on the steps when John needs to vacuum. Housewives with kids standing in the living room when we have to walk right through there to get to the truck.

When the guests were gone, 8-ish, Kevin started “helping.” Carrying things to the truck, watching us work, and asking questions. “Why don’t you stay at your parents’ house?” “Why doesn’t the cat ride in the car?” “How are you going to clean up that oven?” “Are you taking your halogen lamp?”

Finally, everything was in the truck. The cat was drugged. Kevin kept helping. I was truly going insane. We’d planned to leave at noon...we climbed in the truck at about 9:30 pm. Julia had been waiting for a half-hour or so, completely dilated and stumbling. I got in the cab of the truck, John got in, Julie climbed on my lap and crouched.

I sniffed.

“Oh, fuck, John, she’s pooping, she’s pooping on me, no-no-no-no-no, oh noooooo, it’s warm, ohhhh....”

“Oh, nooo,” that bastard was grinning.

“She’s poo-hoo-hoo-hoo-ping on me-hee-hee-heeeee....”

“Goose?”

“Oh-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho....”

Laughing? Crying? Anybody’s guess. Tears streamed down my face and I giggled and sobbed while I dropped the semi-solid cat turds outside the door.

John, sure that I’d lost any semblance of sanity, pulled the truck away and remarked that the least Julia could do is give us a warning or a signal of some kind. I replied, still hysterical, that she did give us a signal, she crawled on my lap. All the other times she’s pooped in the car have been on my lap.

Julie was limp and distracted all the way to Toledo. She refused to sit on the bed we made for her, choosing instead to flop across my lap. In order to hold her there, I had to tense my legs, thighmaster-style. No breaks. By the time we get to Georgia I’lll have thighs like you’ve never seen.

And just as we pulled up to the motel room, another warm surprise dropped into my lap. John comforted me with a Conan O’Brien imitation:

“You have very nice legs!...for Julia to POOP ON!!”