Awkward Bitch 2 (unedited chapter 2) By Marlo Donato
Dracula and a Wee “I heard shrieks coming from the bathroom,” William later told me. He was shaking his head and smiling. “I just stood there laughing to myself.” “You knew what happened?” I asked. “Of course I knew.” “Was I loud?” I asked, giggling. William smiled. “You were VERY loud. The whole airport heard you.” I turned to Laura. “Was I THAT loud?” “You were VERY loud,” she concurred, giving a half smile and running her hand through her long hair. Well of course I had to scream loud. You see, William and I had booked a holiday, along with my good friend from New York, Laura, and her boyfriend, Mark. This wasn’t any ordinary holiday. It was um —well—a Dracula themed tour through Transylvania. And guess what else? We were spending Halloween there too. Laura and I had been obsessed with vampires since we were thirteen; vampire films, shows, books, etc. We were the part of our generation that fantasised over Lestat. Anne Rice was a god to me. I saw Buffy the Vampire Slayer air for the first time ever when it was a pilot. I remember my mother saying, “Marlo! There’s a new show on tonight with those vampires. It looks like something you would like; it’s called Buffy the Slayer.” By the way, Laura is the one who I brought to William’s shop when I first met him. The one who I told I was going to marry him. Everyone going on the tour was to meet up in Budapest, Hungary. William and I arrived a day early and slept in this enchanting city. The next day, the tour bus picked us up, along with about ten other people. There were a few more people arriving that day, and Laura and her boyfriend, Mark were amongst them. We went to the airport to pick them all up. As per usual, I had to use the toilet after thirty minutes and there wasn’t one on our mini bus. I had not seen Laura for a few years, and the thought of seeing her ever youthful face filled my heart with excitement. Going to Transylvania with her was going to be a holiday of a lifetime. And here we were about to do it with our men by our side. So when I walked into the bathroom, low and behold, who comes out of one of the stalls? The excitement of seeing my long-time friend pop out of a bathroom stall in an airport in Hungary was overwhelming. I started screaming! I think I almost picked her up when we hugged. She is light enough.
We chatted away as we boarded the bus and began the journey towards the Tokaj wine region, our only stop in Hungary, before crossing the border to Romania. We were stopping at a well-known winery for a wine tasting and lesson in grapes. If you have the opportunity to taste a Tokaj wine, do it. You won’t be sorry. At the winery, I was explaining to Laura why I could not fully partake in the actual tasting. “I can barely have tiny sips,” I explained. “Every time I drink wine, I get a urinary infection.” “Oh no,” she replied, cringing. “Yeah, and I get them really bad,” I told her. “My wee turns to blood in seconds.” She winced. “And if that wasn’t enough,” I continued with dramatic flair, “When I get an infection, my MS either flares up badly, or I have a relapse.” “Oh my God,” she replied, shaking her head. “Does everyone with MS have these problems?” “Well, not everyone with MS gets urinary infections, but we are definitely prone to bladder problems in general. But for sure, almost everyone who I ever speak to has the same experience with infections leading to relapses. It could be a cold, a sinus infection, whatever; each time, they suffer a relapse or a flare up.” “That is awful.” “So awful,” I nodded. I wanted to tell her more. I wanted to tell her what happened on the flight to Hungary. I looked around the long table we were all sitting at. It was a heavy looking wooden table nested in a cosy stone vault. I loved the setting. Everyone was chatting with people they just met as they tasted the wines, getting a little tipsy. I realised that this was not only a wine tasting, but a great ice breaking exercise for the group. “I will tell you the rest later,” I told Laura, realising it was neither the place nor the time. I thought to myself about the flight. For the past few weeks, I had been having a problem weeing. Every time I went to the toilet, I would end up sitting there for ages. It was like stage fright. You know that feeling when you go into a public bathroom and there is only one other person there? I hate that. You sit there (or stand there) anticipating the other person listening to your wee hit the porcelain— or am I the only one who thinks that? Our flight had become a urinating nightmare. My bladder was full so many times, and each time I was in the toilet for well beyond the courteous passenger time allotment. I was sweating by the time I came out. For one of the trips to the toilet, I brought my make-up bag as an alibi. In retrospect, I am sure no one was paying attention. But I felt like everyone noticed, especially since I got up four times during a flight that was less than three hours! “Jesus, that woman is back in the toilet, again?” The final time, I brought a toothbrush in, so it would look like I was really into hygiene. I did brush my teeth whilst sitting on the toilet and found the distraction quite helpful. William was empathetic to my problem, comforting me each time I returned to my seat. “It’s okay,” he kept whispering, squeezing my hand.
Just thinking about the plane scenario made me want to wee. We continued tasting the wine, although I pretended for most of it. I certainly did not want to risk getting an infection on this holiday. I talked to a couple sitting next to us, trying to put all my weeing fears in the back of my mind. After the tasting, we continued the tour of the winery. We walked through vaults filled with barrels of wine. I had never been to a winery before, which was a shame because Long Island, where I am from, has several of them. It was a wonderful experience. Back on the bus, I had a million questions for Laura. I wanted to know all about her current job, her apartment, and what was on her book shelf. I did not want to talk about multiple sclerosis. When we crossed the border into Transylvania, Laura and I smiled at each other. Both of us having a sense for the eerie and dark, I think we ignorantly thought that our tour would have some mystical effect on us and the thrill of it consumed us.
As night fell, my ears focused on the sound of the bus’s engine. The road we travelled was white with frost and a dust that seemed to float above the ground. The churning of the wheels and the mist outside the windows added to the creepiness. Out beyond the white canvas that was visible from our headlights was just pitch black darkness. “Laura,” I whispered, “Imagine breaking down out here?” She laughed nervously. “That would really suck,” I said under my breath. The whole bus was quiet. Everyone was either sleeping or looking out the window, thinking the same thoughts as me. I thought about how the bus did not have a toilet, and I started to sweat. I panicked about having to wee and then panicked about not being able to wee. I was also terrified that if the weeing problem was part of a relapse then maybe more of the relapse was to come. I was partly scared because of a recent experience: We had been to Germany for Oktoberfest, the month before. William worked with a cliquey bunch of people who frequently planned holidays together, and boy did they have energy. As well they should, as they were all in their twenties! We headed to Munich on a day that I was feeling the dark cloud of MS hanging over my head. Luckily, we were not flying over with the rest of the group. This was pre-planned because they were camping there, and needed an earlier flight. I like camping, but only very specific camping—the scenic and clean kind. There has to be beautiful wilderness, and or streams, lakes, waterfalls, etc. If it is within a city, I don’t do it. If there are bands playing and people dancing merrily in mud, I don’t do it either. Some might think I require a toilet facility, but that is not the case either. That only brings more filth and bacteria, and relying on someone to clean it. No, I will take an open field and the open sky any day. “I don’t do dirt,” were my exact words to William. So, as his friends set up their camping gear somewhere in the city, William and his diva bitch were headed to a hotel. As we got to the hotel, I was feeling worse than on the flight over. I was past exhaustion; I was falling asleep in my stance. My vision was starting to double and I had a pain in my face. The feeling of screwdrivers shoved up the back of my eye sockets had returned for maybe the tenth time in my life. All I wanted to do was lay down. When we entered our room, William fluffed the pillows and told me to take a nap and see if I felt better. I napped for a couple of hours. I only woke up because he was touching my head. “Are you feeling better, Imo?” he asked. No, that is not a type-o. William had a nickname for me, and it was “Imo,” pronounced EE-MO. I had one for him, and it was “Papa”. Even years later, I have a lump in my throat typing that. “I feel worse,” I told him, truthfully. I started crying. “I am so sorry.” He rubbed my head and told me it was okay. He explained that he had been texting with his friends and they were waiting for us inside one of the beer houses. “I can stay here with you, no problem,” he said, comforting me. “Absolutely not!” I told him. “You have to go.” I was concerned about him not having a good time because of my stupid illness, and his friends thinking that I was just being a bitch and not wanting to come out. With a lot of persuasion, William left around one pm. I hid under the covers for another couple of hours. William texted to let me know he was in the epicentre of the activity and having a gigantic beer called a Stein. I was in too much pain to laugh. I turned on the TV. After watching vacantly for about two hours, I was reminded why we did not have a television at home; I started watching aimlessly, surfing channels and landing on the dumbest programs. I was glued now to programs about the process of automation. I had stumbled upon a channel of twenty-four hours of factories. I do have a fascination with this. It somehow amazes me how a product can go down a conveyer belt and be heated, swirled, chopped and packaged by machines. I particularly love watching sweets or gum being made. I was watching everything from cakes to cars. I decided to flip through more channels, and got stuck on a twenty four hour porn channel as well. Do you know the worst part? I wasn’t even turned on! The fact that most of the films were low budget didn’t help. I began focusing on the bad makeup and horrendous sets. Uh! I thought. Who would have sex on a carpet like that? With that wallpaper! Then I started shouting at the television. “Look at those nasty shoes! Did the ad say, ‘Porn actress needed—bring your own cheap shoes’? I mean, there is low budget, but this is NO budget!” I looked at the clock on the TV and it was nine pm! I had been watching these two channels for six hours! It got to the point that they were interchangeable. The pistons would be frantically working, whilst some woman got pounded, and then at the end, a cherry was placed on her head, and she was boxed up with cellophane. “What the hell am I doing?” I groaned, turning it off. I crawled deeper under the covers, feeling sicker and disgusted. I woke up when William came in. I could smell food. I had been shut in that room with only snacks that we had from the airport and the mini-bar. The hotel did not have room service, but I hadn’t been hungry until now. William was carrying a plate; an actual hot plate stacked with food! “Room service,” he joked, in a bad German accent. My heart sank at the sight of him and the love I felt for him. “How did you get that?” I nearly screamed with excitement. “I told the waiters in the restaurant downstairs that my wife is very ill, and could they make a vegetarian plate.” These were the moments that William was famous for. He was my bestie; my best friend ever. He took such care of me.
So, I looked at William, sleeping next to me on the bus, and put my head on his shoulder. (Yes, we are now back in Romania. Stick with me.) Even if I got sick on this holiday, he would take care of me.
Never in my life had I viewed scenery like the landscape in Transylvania. On one hand, it was dismal, as it was the beginning of winter. But it was also hauntingly beautiful. We travelled to incredible cities that I didn’t know existed. I was ignorant to cities like Cluj-Napoca, filled with University students scurrying around baroque, gothic, Renaissance and neoclassical buildings and little coffee bars. I secretly wished that I could have attended University there instead of in Queens, NY. My favourite city was Sibiu. This was another city, that I could picture myself living. There is so much rich history and culture. My mind was filled with what I was learning of their art, poetry, religion, architecture, etc. It was eye-opening. If you have not heard of or seen these cities, then I suggest you book a flight immediately (or at least google them). One of the most memorable places we visited was The Merry Cemetery in Sãpânta. It is probably the most colourful cemetery on this earth. The headstones, which are not stone at all, but wood, have vibrant pictures that represent the life of the person buried. If my memory and research are correct, the point is to celebrate death, as a birth into the next world. Therefore, the joyous occasion should be marked with plenty of colour. There was a lot of blue. We were enjoying the merry place when of course; I had to use the toilet. The toilet was in a tiny building that looked like it was about to collapse. There was an old woman sitting on a chair outside. I figured she was just an old woman resting on a chair. As I passed by her, she called out angrily in Romanian. Her hand was cupped and reaching out. I had no idea what she was actually saying, but it was obvious that she wanted payment for using the toilet. I looked at William. “Does she work here?” I asked. “Probably not,” he laughed. “Should we pay her?” “Yes,” he answered, producing a coin from his pocket. She frowned and started raising her voice. William pulled out another coin, which seemed to please her. I went in, as she grasped the money from William. This is bizarre, I thought, as I entered the cubicle. The door to the cubicle was like a front door of a house. There were many glass panes, and several of them were broken. It made me feel uneasy. I lined the toilet with a thin, pink loo roll, which seemed to be the Romanian favourite. We had seen it at every truck stop and restaurant. I sat down and tried to relax. There were only two cubicles, so I knew people would be waiting. I waited for the wee—and waited. Nothing. My bladder was full; bursting, in fact. I started sweating. I tried to hum to myself. I decided to give up. I had to get off the toilet and go somewhere else. I had no plan, but I could not stay in this bathroom and not wee. Minutes had gone by. As I was giving up, a miracle happened— Through the broken window pain, came a hand. It was the big, comforting hand of my husband. He knew I was struggling, paid the lady extra for his bathroom entry, came in and reached his arm through the broken glass. I reached up and grabbed his hand. He squeezed it. I closed my eyes, and out came the wee.
On this tour, we were lucky enough to also see rural areas, and places off the beaten path. We stopped at one such place where we met a man who was known for making wood carvings. We stopped to watch him work, and to look at his wares. His woodshop was part of a farm. Or at least I took it as a farm. There was a pig. I met him— As we watched the woodcarver at his craft, I realized I had to wee. I was getting angry with myself, because I had to wee every second of this trip and it interrupted everything. I asked Sorin, our tour guide where the toilet was. He pointed to an area where the pig was. I looked at William, who cracked a small smile. “Oh my god, please come with me,” I whispered. “Of course,” he said. “You will be okay.” He held my hand, and led me near the pig, which started squawking when he saw us. “There’s a toilet here?” I asked in disbelief. “With the pig? Like WITH the pig?” William led me to what can only be described as a small one person (one short person) shack with a hole in a box. “Jesus,” I said as I stepped in. “Please stay nearby,” I begged William. “I think the pig is not happy with me here.” “I’ll come right back,” he said comforting me. “Okay, but come right back in one minute.” Or fifteen minutes, by the time I piss, I thought. The shack was made of slats of wood that were no longer holding up. There were cracks everywhere, letting in the extreme cold, wet air outside. “Nice little piggy,” I whispered. I couldn’t concentrate on weeing, as the pig started squawking louder. It would seem that a chicken or a rooster (I have no clue which) began clucking around him. A full-fledged animal argument was kicking off. Through the broken slats, I could see them dancing around each other. I almost screamed, and had to hold my hand to my mouth. My heart was racing. I became increasingly terrified. I could feel beads of sweat on my forehead, as I tried to block the angry animals out and make myself wee. Nothing would come out. Please, please, please! I pleaded with myself, trying to block out the escalating pig and cock fight. It just couldn’t get worse— So of course it did. I heard a growl from behind me. Yes, another animal had joined the argument. I could not see what the animal was, but it sounded like a large dog. I looked through the slats to my side, and saw that a rickety wooden fence was all that was holding back this mystery beast. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I murmured. He was growling and throwing his body against the fence. Each time the fence took a blow, it seemed to come closer, ready to cave in. Jesus, he is coming through the fence. He can’t come through the fence, can he? Of course he can come through the fence! It’s buckling! Just pull yourself together and wee! It was like a symphony around me; a symphony of mad animals. Squawk, squawk. Grhhhhhhhhh. Cluck cluck cluck! Piss, God damn it! Piss! I looked at the little sheets of pink paper for some sense of comfort, trying to pretend I was on a porcelain toilet. I hummed to myself and blocked out as much of the animal sounds that I could. I saw William’s face in my mind’s eye. I saw his comforting smile and his outstretched hand. I held my right fingers in my left hand, pretending it was William, and alas—wee.
And then there was the day the bus broke down in the Carpathian Mountains. After hours of being stranded on the bus, I needed to wee…
by Marlo Donato