Feaverish

Last weekend we drove to Ashland to see a couple of plays at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival. The first play was George Bernard Shaw’s very funny The Philanderer. Since I had a new notepad, I took notes:

Act One

Scene One

Ooh, I really like the set. Not too busy or over-decor…oh dear god what is that smell? Is it coming from the geriatric case next to me? Whoa, he is ripe. I haven’t smelled a fart like that since…ever. Smells like burning diapers, with, maybe, Thai chili sauce. My sinuses are filling up. Eyes watering. Focus. Focus.

Scene Two

The smell should have cleared by now, but it hasn’t. Also: “smell” is no longer the right word; more like “mist.” And it’s sticking. This guy can fart, but if he thinks I can be intimidated, he’s crazy. I’ve never backed down from a farting challenge before, and I’m not about to start now. All hands to battle stations.

Scene Three

Take that, grandpa! That’s right, let it settle in. Let the sweet breeze waft over you. Breathe deep the epitomizing smell of waste, of destruction, of all that is black in humanity’s collective soul. What’s that I see? A slight twitch? That’s right, two can play at thi…oh. Fighting back, eh? I didn’t think you had two rounds in you, old man. Oh god. That’s bad. Through your mouth, Feaver. Breathe through your mouth. Wait for it. Now let him have it! But don’t strain too hard. Was that audible? No one’s looking at you; they must not have heard. Patience. Work on your arsenal.

Intermission

As I write this, I’m at the back of a line of a dozen men whose cumulative age is in the thousands. We wait for urinals. Evidently we are ordered by prostate size, for there is no sound of hot urine splashing off cold porcelain; only the faintest trickling as molecule-thin streams of liquid struggle, drop by drop, to escape shriveled, long useless penises (peni?).

Act Two

Scene One

I suspect my neighbor was unable to wait for an open urinal, for his latest farts have the spicy tinge of urine in them. My own emissions are becoming quite full-bodied, and I’m experimenting with a little aroma I like to call “burnt broccoli.” We’re in the thick of things now.

Scene Two

War is hell. Also, it does not prove who’s right, only who’s left. These have been some of the most harrowing moments of my life, but I’ve learned some important lesso…

Apologies. I may have passed out. One thing is certain: my neighbor has a colostomy bag. And it’s open. For there can be no other source of the stench that now surrounds us. There had been an unspoken pact to stick to conventional weapons, but my adversary has violated that agreement. I despair.

Scene Three

One of us has shat his pants. I cannot be certain it isn’t me. The air is damp with vaporized fecal matter. Nothing matters now. The play and it’s actors, the audience — all are casualties of our private war.

Finally. Curtain. It’s over. The audience rises for an ovation. My soiled neighbor partner and I remain seated, stuck to our seat cushions. What began as a contest, or perhaps a dare — a dropped glove, if you will — quickly escalated into full-blown fartmageddon. And it’s brought us closer. We’ve exchanged nothing more than gas and aerosolized liquid, but I feel like I know this man, this old, great man, better than any of my dearest friends.

The End