In the foothills northeast of Santa Barbara sits a posh, gated community, where if you happen to be working within, you must first sign a contract, the small print of which states you must not even look at the pool once you’re on the property you’ve been assigned to. Dogs aren’t even allowed in your vehicle, even if they never get out. The gate guards, one chubster, one on who knows how many Oxycontin (who gets a look like he’s relearning English every time you speak to him) and one with about eight percent Down’s Syndrome (who most likely masturbates to fetish porn depicting huge-titted fat chicks greasing bowling balls) are instructed not to nod or wave in your general direction. As well, the owners are not allowed to own or drive trucks within the confines, so as to distinguish between owners and peons.
Besides all that, it’s a pretty nice place to work.
On the first Wednesday of every month the grounds keepers have a BBQ back by the tractors, lawnmowers and fertilizer. Big deal, you might be thinking, a simple BBQ behind the eight-foot hedge with the hired help. Yes, but this particular BBQ is sponsored by various contractors, businesses, and those in the know. Only those who know, know of this BBQ. The waiting list to sponsor this monthly shindig is three years long. Among people who like tri-tip, chicken legs, beans, rice, salad, and tortillas, this is the lunch to attend.
One such attendee at the most recent First Wednesday was a mailman. With his faux Lyle Lovett pompadour, his shorts pulled up past his ass crack, and his nervous, bouncy walk, he was doomed from the beginning. He admitted upon sitting at our table that he’d asked to reschedule his lunch hour weeks prior just so he could make it to the Q.
At our table sat me, my boss, the chef/head gardener, a groundskeeper, a guy from the pro shop, and the mailman.
Mailman immediately horked down a big chunk of tri-tip, wrapped in a perfectly steamed bite of flour tortilla, and followed it with a schlarg of Coke. Seconds later his eyes watered, he sat bolt upright, punched his solar plexus with the inside of his closed fist, barely made it from the table, stumbled ten feet, grabbed onto a tractor tire, and puked.
Barely having wiped his mouth, he sat back down. The chef returned with some water. Mailman sipped, then quickly scrambled from the table, puking the water and a bit more.
“Are you okay?” the Pro asked.
“Yeah,” Mailman responded, sitting back down. “I think that first bite went down wrong.”
The Pro went into a lengthy diatribe about his CPR recertification he’d gone through just the day before, which had included the Heimlich maneuver.
Mailman got up and puked again, this time mere feet from the table. At this point we at the table, and a few curious dudes at the next table, quirkily smiling, all telepathically decided we would keep eating, despite this guy’s continuing need to puke. It was as if he’d spilled his beverage: kind of a bummer, but no major inconvenience—especially nothing to hinder the eating process.
The Pro got up and Heimliched the mailman, who puked through his nose and mouth, twice. They both sat back down. I stifled a laugh into my hand. My boss stole a glance at my plate—he was almost done—I had about five minutes left.
“Swine flu?” my boss asked.
“I guess this is what they mean by “going postal”? the chef said.
“Did some Anthrax finally make it through?” I asked.
Mailman didn’t make it up the next time. He’d still only been sipping water. He almost fell backwards as he puked over the side of the table, a few microscopic splatters hit The Pro’s sideplate of tortillas, which he drew in closer. His gentlemanly decorum was waning.
“You sure you’re alright?” the Pro asked.
“Yeah,” Mailman replied, lightly punching his chest and wiping spittle from his mouth with the back of his hand. “I can tell it’s almost out.”
Almost out? we all wondered. Almost out? Fucking Christ, man, if you’ve got something lodged in your throat you can’t breathe, let alone speak, and if it’s stuck as long as his supposedly was, you’d be turning purple at this point—regardless of the freshness of the Pro’s Heimlich training.
Mailman went to get some paper towels. He schlooged one pile up, and returned it gloppily to a trashcan. As he returned to mop up another pile, he puked again, this time mere feet from my boss, who had finished his plate and was crouching at the head of the table talking to the chef. He gave me a look.
“We gotta go,” he said. “I’ve got a lot of meetings today.”
We briskly sauntered off, me with my last chicken leg lodged in my mouth. Once we were in his truck we laughed all the way back to the site, and then continued. We laughed for almost half an hour. Because, seriously, puke once and return to the table. Maybe. Not even making it from the table? Dismiss yourself—if not out of self-respect, then at least out of embarrassment. Go hide in the bushes until you’re done.
Next time we’ll be sitting down with the tractor boys, or maybe even up on a tractor, well away from the return of the Persistent Puker. All I know is he’d better sponsor a First Wednesday—I don’t care how long the wait list is.
Vitriol