Asinine

I spent last year’s Winter Carnival in Conway, New Hampshire with Roger Landry. It would be difficult to say which we did more — have sex, drink or ski, but, if memory serves, I was naked most of the time. When we got back to Boston, he spent a few nights at my condo where we went at each other tirelessly. I’m usually not the type to rush into a relationship after knowing a man for a few weeks, but our body chemistry just clicked.

On Friday afternoon of that following week I was finishing up a staff meeting for February sales forecast when I felt what I might delicately describe as “embarrassing urgency.” I sprinted to the ladies room in time, plunked down on the seat with a promise never to have the meat lovers’ pizza from Ciro’s again. There was a momentary searing pain followed by a sickening plop. I stood up and looked into the bowl. There was my lily white, cellulite dimpled ass, like Ahab’s arch nemesis, floating in the bowl as innocuously as you please. I felt behind me — nothing. It had fallen off. I passed out.

When I woke up I was flat on my stomach at Nashoba Regional. A nurse was sitting by me.

“Well, it’s about time.”

“Where am I?”

“They brought you into the ER at 5:30 PM. Once we got you stable, we brought you up here to a semi-private room. You’ve been out for a good eight hours. You’ll be fine. I’ll tell Dr. Fraley you’re awake.”

Dr. Fraley was about my age but prematurely grey and sporting the wrong type of glasses for someone of his economic status. He studied the clipboard, laconically flipping pages. I couldn’t stand the silence.

“The last thing I remember, Doctor, was being in the ladies room stall. I thought I heard someone scream, then everything went blank.”

He looked up. “The scream was your own. A co-worker, (he looked at the chart again) Molly Fuentes, heard it and rushed in. Your ass has fallen off.”

“That can’t be. Hair, fingernails and teeth can fall out but not a human ass. Is it leprosy?”

“Oh god, no. Your condition is unusual but certainly not unique. There are journal articles, JAMA Fall of 2006, to cite one and several in the Scandinavian periodicals where this syndrome is much more common. Tell me, have you entered into a new relationship recently?”

I owned up that Roger Landry and I had been intimate frequently in the past two weeks. “But what does my sex life have to do with this?”

“There are several linguistic expressions that, in point of fact, have a medical basis here. My experience has taught me that there is always some truth to adages and old wives tales. Did you ever hear anyone say, ‘They screwed their ass off’?’”

“What!”

“Or how about, ‘I worked my ass off on that project’ or ‘it was so cold I froze my ass off?’”

“This is impossible. The ass is not attached like some zippered compartment. It’s flesh and bone.”

“Actually, what happens, and this is why the big cities in Sweden and Norway and the Northeast United States are hardest hit, is that continuous sexual activity, plus overwork combined with subzero temperatures plays havoc with various muscles, ligaments and other support structure in the buttock area. Given the ‘perfect storm’ of these conditions, the ass begins to sag precipitously and, if not addressed immediately, will eventually fall off.”

He got up, placed the clipboard at the end of the bed and took off those hideous glasses. “There are two treatment options. The first involves a system of slings and braces. Heavy duty support garments are also required, provided you have no latex allergy. This will secure the ass to your lower body once again and eventually a tentative bond will form. There is no guarantee against a relapse and all the activity and climate conditions I’ve mentioned must be entered into with extreme caution.

Another method, one I highly recommend, involves surgery. Bones, tendons and ligaments are taken from other areas of your body and attached to the ass area. Some liposuction is done to lighten the load, as it were. Recovery is six weeks, which is normal for any procedure of this nature. The upside is that you can live a relatively worry free life and, with decent judgment, it should never happen again. There is no official support group that I know of, but I can provide you with names of those who’ve been in your shoes. The big thing now is to rest and decide which way you want to go. I have freed up my calendar for Monday morning if you decide on the operation. Give my service a call if you have any questions.”

I got a decent night’s sleep and decided to have the surgery. My boss, Mr. Hickman, called from work and I told him the whole story. I was beyond embarrassment by this time. He politely said not to worry, everything on my plate would be taken care of; the important thing was to get back on my feet. He did say that I was the butt of several jokes, but that was the extent of his wit, which I’m sure was intended to cheer me up. He promised daily reports of the latest office gossip to keep my mind off my condition.

***

I spent a full week in post op. I had a temporary colostomy, catheter and body cast from my lower rib cage to mid thigh. Though I walked like the monster in Frankenstein, I was able to move after four days and was home after a week. They assigned me a visiting nurse, and my mom flew in from Cleveland to lend a hand for the duration. After forty-five days the cast came off, my plumbing was set right and, save for a few scars which you had to look hard to see, I was close to normal.

Roger, much to my chagrin, though he called every now and then, had yet to make a visit. It wasn’t until the weekend after Valentine’s Day that he dropped by my condo.

“Cheryl, I hope you don’t blame me for all this. If I had any idea this kind of thing could happen, I would have pulled back a bit. I didn’t visit the hospital because I figured things were a bit messy and you know how weak my stomach is. I did call a week or so ago. You were asleep, but your mom filled me in. It sure is strange condition, don’t you think?”

“I’ve got tons of literature if you want to read up on it. They took pictures before, during and after the surgery as well. I’m almost as good as new and quite frankly could use a vacation. What do you think about a Caribbean cruise when I’m back to normal?”

“I’d love to, babe, but I’m flat out at work. Tax season is starting, and Bernstein is on my ass to beat the bushes for some new accounts now that we lost that chain of Italian restaurants in the Berkshires. And I caught a chill a week ago, which I can’t seem to shake — cough, scratchy throat, the whole nine yards.”

“Speaking of last week, I called your office and was told you had taken a ski break to Cannon Mountain.’

“Well, yeah, a bunch of us went up. Busman’s holiday; we were looking to sign up some of the mid-level resorts.”

“And Virginia Paley?”

“Oh, you mean Ginger. Sure, she was there. We always need a little “thigh flash” to land some of the bigger fish. She and I might have had an après snowboarding drink in the lounge once or twice, but that was it. Trust me, Cheryl. Ginger’s got nothing on you when it comes to the sack. I mean, not that I have first hand knowledge or anything. And as soon as you’re ready, we can sign up for one of those cruise things if you want.”

He came over to my heavily cushioned chair and tried to peck me on the cheek. I pulled away. “You lying bastard.”

He backed off thinking I might swing a crutch at him. “Cheryl, she meant nothing to me. She’s married for god’s sake but fools around with everyone in the office. She just likes to do it. I don’t think I even kissed her the whole time we were in bed together. It was a week of business mostly, and Bernstein had me crunching numbers most of the time. I was flat out. It’s tough for me to go two whole months without sex; that’s a long time.”

“I’ve had time for reflection as well. I used it to think about my life and your part in it. I concluded, and forgive my metaphors here, that you are a first class asshole. And I hate to be so critical about your recent piece of ass, Ginger, but it might be best if she serviced your needs from now on.”

“Come on, Cheryl, so I made a mistake. It’s not like anyone died, and I did send you that Edible Arrangements fruit basket, which wasn’t cheap by the way.”

“For which the nurses on the fourth floor were eternally grateful. Now, if you would leave, I need a nap before I do my rehab exercises.”

“I’ll give you some time to cool off. In a week or so I’ll call. I don’t want it to end like this.”

“Roger, turn sideways for a minute.”

“Yeah, I know I’ve gained a few pounds. Everybody does during the winter. The Discovery channel says that we’re like hibernating animals during the winter. I’m joining a gym the beginning of April. Bernstein is getting us a company discount.”

“It’s not a weight problem. Go into the bathroom, drop your pants and take a look at the sagging action that’s happening. Move my robe from the back of the door and use the full body mirror.”

***

“Jesus Christ!”

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D. E. Fredd lives in Townsend, Massachusetts. He has had over one hundred short stories and poetry published in several journals. He received the Theodore Hoepfner Award given by the Southern Humanities Review for the best short fiction of 2005 and was a 2006 Ontario Award Finalist. He won the 2006 Black River Chapbook Competition and received a 2007 Pushcart Special Mention Award. He has been included in the Million Writers Award of Notable Stories for 2005, 2006, 2007 and 2008.