It was day 2 of our New York City trip when we ventured into Little Italy. We walked, talked and snapped pictures of everything — even taxi cabs hauling ass in front of the Italian American Museum, apparently. We even enjoyed a gigantic thermos full of coffee, which I promptly spiked with whiskey, deeming it my “Manhattan Booty Juice.”
We had a wonderful time in Little Italy, like a montage from a 1980’s romantic comedy — all laughter, permed hair and sporadic food fights in curiously tolerant eating establishments. It was a wonderful time, that is, until we ordered a pizza.
Now, I’m not necessarily blaming that restaurant in Little Italy with the huge red banners and awnings on Mulberry Street, but my wife began her nightmare sojourn through the 7th Sphere of Hell exactly 4 hours after eating there. Also, I am compelled — compelled, I say — to mention the prosciutto on her pizza tasted a bit… off. Now, I love eating dead pig parts — hell, I take a bacon bath every Thursday night — but this stuff didn’t taste like dry-cured ham at all. It tasted like thinly sliced Gorgon meat.
Later that evening, as we were riding the A train back to Brooklyn, my wife started pawing at the lining of her coat — like, compulsively — in a way which let me know something bad was about to happen. She jumped off the train at the next stop, sprinted to the nearest garbage can and threw up so violently her back arched with each heave like a greyhound bent over a mailbox.
My heart went out to her, because we all know just how badly this sucks. I helped guide her back onto the train and we rode to our stop at Nostrand Avenue. We barely made it back to our hostel and up the stairs before my wife fired prosciutto goo all over the communal bathroom. Toilet, sink, walls, floor — she hosed that bathroom down like it was on fire. Do you know the difference between regular vomiting and projectile vomiting? Regular vomiting sucks. Projectile vomiting is amazing.
My wife’s torment continued throughout the night. She threw up every 30 minutes, and her nausea was soon coupled with explosive diarrhea. The poor dear was rooster tailing out of both ends, soiling her clothes and the bathroom floor simultaneously. Normally I would congratulate this sort of behavior with a high-five and a slap on the ass, (maybe even take a picture to show our future children), but this time I was just plain worried. And adding guilt to my worry, as I would later find out, she’d been cleaning up her own mess each time it happened rather than asking me for help. On top of all of this… she looked bad. Like, The Walking Dead bad. I wasn’t sure if I should call an ambulance, try and get her to an emergency room myself or just keep holding the hot water bottle against her stomach while stroking flakes of dried yack out of her hair. I kept telling her it was just food poisoning and would run its course after about 4 hours, doing my best to channel the prestigious medical degree I totally don’t have. But hey, blind assurances were surely more appreciated than the hysterical meltdown I was experiencing inside. All told, it was one of the longest, most stressful nights we’ve ever shared, and it didn’t end until we both passed out at dawn.
We slept most of the next day, finally waking in the late afternoon. My wife was predictably weak as she emerged from the bunk beds, shivering like a newborn faun trying to stand in a pool of amniotic fluid. And you know how almost nothing but a few random food items sound good when you’ve spent the last night purging yourself right down to your very essence? My wife had almost no appetite except for two specific things: Coca-Cola Classic and Nabisco saltine crackers. I’m thinking she was severely dehydrated and her body needed to replenish its essential salts, and I know this because I went to art school.
Click here to read New York Liaison: A Tale of Love and Projectile Vomiting in the Big Apple – Part IV
Click here to read New York Liaison: A Tale of Love and Projectile Vomiting in the Big Apple – Part III
Click here to read New York Liaison: A Tale of Love and Projectile Vomiting in the Big Apple – Part II
Click here to read New York Liaison: A Tale of Love and Projectile Vomiting in the Big Apple – Part I
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