Pillow Talk
I awoke on my back in bed that Saturday morning with an eight-pound weight on my chest. As my eyes came into focus, I noticed Rex perched on my sternum. He struck a regal Sphinx pose: parallel legs outstretched in front, stoic look on the face, and a casual wagging tail. (Historic note—the Sphinx does not have a casual wagging tail.)
As I cleared my throat to speak, I remembered that I’d had heaps of Limburger cheese and several cloves of fresh garlic on my home-made pizza last night. Perhaps my breath would be somewhat revolting to my bed companion. Once, when Kathy “Chesty” McCormack had spent the night and I’d had Limburger Garlic pizza the night before, my morning greeting to her, as she lay in bed moaning from a hellacious hangover, was apparently offensive to her.
As I romantically lilted, “Hey, babe, brace yourself. This will only take a minute or two,” my stinky, cheesey, garlicy breath wafted over to her side of the bed. Evidently, even in her clouded tequila state of mind, the pungent aroma of Limburger and garlic weakened her constitution to the point that she rolled out of bed onto the floor, in the fetal position, and threw up on the carpet. That put the kybosh on my romantic intentions. (Barely.)
I cleaned her up and took her home. We finally broke up the night she showed up for my Bastille Day party and got wasted on French absinthe. I found her out on the sidewalk, naked, quoting Shakespeare in Pig Latin to anyone who cared to listen. So much for Chesty. Boy, but she sure could . . . well, I don’t need to go into that here.
So. Rex was on my rib cage staring at me intently. Do I cover my mouth so as not to offend him with my breath, or do I just blast him with it? After all, he eats cat turds and digs up and rolls in dead fish parts when Mr. Hendricks buries them in his yard. So why be dainty with him?
I let loose. “Good morning, Rexie.” He quivered briefly, but quickly recovered from the onslaught of my horrid breath. “Ready for breakfast?” The noxious gasses had taken their toll. Usually he can’t wait for me to feed him, but now, enveloped in a toxic fog, he had apparently lost his appetite.
“Ready for a big bowl of those Bark-Right Kibbles? Maybe a little of my leftover Mexican Three-Alarm Meatloaf?” He started to bob and weave in the fusillade of the repulsive thunderheads of Limburger Garlic nerve gas. He fell off the bed onto the floor, in the fetal position, and threw up. Just like Chesty. Mercy.
I cleaned him up and sat him back on the bed on my way to the bathroom. I had to fix my breath—the Jehovah’s Witnesses usually stop by on Saturday morning, and I certainly didn’t want them to end up on my porch in the fetal position throwing up all over themselves.
“Be right there, Rexie. Steady yourself. Breathe deeply. I don’t have a brown paper bag to breathe deeply into, but you could breathe deeply into one of my socks. No, forget that. That’s not a good idea in your condition. Let me brush my teeth and gargle and I’ll be right back.” I don’t know if he heard me or not; I didn’t hear any deep breathing.
The brushing didn’t help. The mouthwash didn’t work either. Baking soda! That’s supposed to get rid of smells! I went into the kitchen, got the box of baking soda, tipped back my head, and filled my mouth completely with the white powder. Now that’s a sensation that is hard to describe.
I walked back into the bedroom to check on Rex. Of course the baking soda mixed immediately with my saliva, which turned the baking soda into a mouthful of saline mush.
Rex looked at me. I must have looked like a hamster with my bulging cheeks full of the salty load of baking soda. I had been breathing through my nose, but needed more air. In my gyrations to get more air, I sucked a little down my throat, setting off more sensations that one can only experience with a mouth full of baking soda. The salty glob slid down my esophagus and into my stomach: I needed to get this stuff out of my mouth. Now.
Before I could get to the bathroom to spit it out, I dropped to my knees next to the bed, fell over onto the floor, in the fetal position, and threw up all over myself. Once it was over and I had composed myself, I sat up.
On the edge of the bed was Rex in a regal Sphinx pose, looking at me, casually wagging his tail.
No . . . more . . . Limburger . . . Garlic . . . pizza!
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Tom and / or Rex can be reached at burns100@earthlink.net.
