Read Online The Thong Also Rises by Jennifer L. Leo - Free Book Online
Authors: Jennifer L. Leo
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wrong.
There is a correct way to squat, with your butt very close to the ground, your hamstrings pressed against your calves and your feet flat. Once you master this position, itâs quite comfortable, but I could only achieve it sporadically. Weighing the embarrassment quotient of peeing incorrectly against peeing correctly but possibly falling into the toilet, I chose to pee wrong and stay clean. I squatted awkwardly, with my feet bent uncomfortably and my behind way too far up in the air. Under the rapt attention of my audience, curious as a couple of scientist kittens, I needed to find something else to focus my attention on. The most interesting thing in the room had to be the big, gray, shit-eating pig, so thatâs what I looked at.
Then two things happened simultaneously. One was that the pig finished her meal and started trotting towards me. Pigs are smart and this one obviously knew the area well. I didnât need Pavlov to tell me what she was hoping for.
The other thing was that a bus began honking its horn. I had no way of knowing if it was my bus or not, but it could have been. It must have been. Of course it was. The pig would knock me into the toilet and my bus would leave and Iâd be stranded in the middle of India wearing hideous pee-soaked clown pants while the townâs little girls gathered around to stare at me.
The pig came at me, her snout decorated with what looked like beads of chocolate milk. I was stuck; I couldnât escape. I peed frantically, trying to finish so I could flee, but Iâd been saving it up for a long time and anyway, you can only pee so fast.
But then the girl who had cleaned off the toilet for me came to my rescue, shaking her water bottle at the pig. Surprisingly, and a bit anticlimactically, her tactic worked; the giant pig backed off under the threat of a small, empty, plastic bottle and trotted out the door.That was good. Then the bus stopped honking. That was not so good, at least, not if it was my bus and if the silence meant it had given up on me.
Finally I was finished. Pulling my clothes together, I raced for the exit. The older girl headed me off at the door and politely asked for two rupees. A small price to pay. I gave a rupee to each of the girls.Then I was outside, rounding the corner, searching out the spot where my bus had parked.
It was gone. Gone, with my non-ugly clothes and my journal and my camera and my chocolate-chip biscuits from Hospet and my Walkman and my mix tapes. I was stranded. I cursed the bicycle trip that had forced me to buy those wretched pants, now the only clothes I owned.
Then I saw my bus. Halfway out of the lot, engine running, windows bristling with a dozen frantically beckoning arms. I took a deep breath of relief and started to run for it, but a little boy blocked my way, running backwards andchirping, âHello, one rupee! Hello, one rupee!â over and over again like a mantra. He giggled and bounced like it was all a big game. But I had no time to playâclearly the bus was seconds away from leaving without me. Reaching the bus, I climbed the steps panting and embarrassed, but glad to see my seat with my little plastic bag of snacks on it and my backpack on the shelf above it.
âWe waited for you,â said another passenger sternly as I passed him. I gave my best âgosh, Iâm sorry, Iâm such a goofy tourist, thanks for putting up with meâ smile and said thanks, hurrying to plop down on the hard, dusty, semi-deluxe seat. I didnât want to fall over when the bus went tearing out of the lot trying to make up for the time I had cost everyone. I caught my breath and waited for the bus to take off, my only worry now where I would end up. We sat. My new friends stood under my window and waved to me. I waved back. We sat some more.The driver got off the bus and walked away. Werenât we supposed to be in a hurry?
After an interlude of bafflement on my part, the driver got on the
There is a correct way to squat, with your butt very close to the ground, your hamstrings pressed against your calves and your feet flat. Once you master this position, itâs quite comfortable, but I could only achieve it sporadically. Weighing the embarrassment quotient of peeing incorrectly against peeing correctly but possibly falling into the toilet, I chose to pee wrong and stay clean. I squatted awkwardly, with my feet bent uncomfortably and my behind way too far up in the air. Under the rapt attention of my audience, curious as a couple of scientist kittens, I needed to find something else to focus my attention on. The most interesting thing in the room had to be the big, gray, shit-eating pig, so thatâs what I looked at.
Then two things happened simultaneously. One was that the pig finished her meal and started trotting towards me. Pigs are smart and this one obviously knew the area well. I didnât need Pavlov to tell me what she was hoping for.
The other thing was that a bus began honking its horn. I had no way of knowing if it was my bus or not, but it could have been. It must have been. Of course it was. The pig would knock me into the toilet and my bus would leave and Iâd be stranded in the middle of India wearing hideous pee-soaked clown pants while the townâs little girls gathered around to stare at me.
The pig came at me, her snout decorated with what looked like beads of chocolate milk. I was stuck; I couldnât escape. I peed frantically, trying to finish so I could flee, but Iâd been saving it up for a long time and anyway, you can only pee so fast.
But then the girl who had cleaned off the toilet for me came to my rescue, shaking her water bottle at the pig. Surprisingly, and a bit anticlimactically, her tactic worked; the giant pig backed off under the threat of a small, empty, plastic bottle and trotted out the door.That was good. Then the bus stopped honking. That was not so good, at least, not if it was my bus and if the silence meant it had given up on me.
Finally I was finished. Pulling my clothes together, I raced for the exit. The older girl headed me off at the door and politely asked for two rupees. A small price to pay. I gave a rupee to each of the girls.Then I was outside, rounding the corner, searching out the spot where my bus had parked.
It was gone. Gone, with my non-ugly clothes and my journal and my camera and my chocolate-chip biscuits from Hospet and my Walkman and my mix tapes. I was stranded. I cursed the bicycle trip that had forced me to buy those wretched pants, now the only clothes I owned.
Then I saw my bus. Halfway out of the lot, engine running, windows bristling with a dozen frantically beckoning arms. I took a deep breath of relief and started to run for it, but a little boy blocked my way, running backwards andchirping, âHello, one rupee! Hello, one rupee!â over and over again like a mantra. He giggled and bounced like it was all a big game. But I had no time to playâclearly the bus was seconds away from leaving without me. Reaching the bus, I climbed the steps panting and embarrassed, but glad to see my seat with my little plastic bag of snacks on it and my backpack on the shelf above it.
âWe waited for you,â said another passenger sternly as I passed him. I gave my best âgosh, Iâm sorry, Iâm such a goofy tourist, thanks for putting up with meâ smile and said thanks, hurrying to plop down on the hard, dusty, semi-deluxe seat. I didnât want to fall over when the bus went tearing out of the lot trying to make up for the time I had cost everyone. I caught my breath and waited for the bus to take off, my only worry now where I would end up. We sat. My new friends stood under my window and waved to me. I waved back. We sat some more.The driver got off the bus and walked away. Werenât we supposed to be in a hurry?
After an interlude of bafflement on my part, the driver got on the
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