Slightly Cursed

We’d stopped for gas, and for one of my many, many, many, many stops to pee, at one of those gazillion-year-old convenience stores. There wasn’t another bathroom for miles. I was pregnant again, and in my sixth month of throwing up. It was the middle of an Iowan blizzard, and my husband wasn’t driving right. He never drives right.

Anyway, I was the first one to go in to the tiny, one-person bathroom; nobody dared get in front of me. Starting the ancient gas pump, my husband then followed me with all the kids because they of course all wanted to pee too. I busted him sneaking nasty greasy hotdogs when I returned. “It’s for the kids!”

(Note to Men: It doesn’t work.)

I glared at his impressively nauseating collection of tubular, greenish-yellow-hued meat-like substances. They glistened under the fluorescent lighting, resting in soggy grease-soaked buns. He didn’t think I noticed that one of the greasy meat sticks was an enormous Polish dog, but I did. You can’t ever leave him alone with green, convenience store meat. Not even for a second.

He smiled, quickly stuffing half of a Polish into his mouth. Sighing, I grabbed my bag of snacks, and wobbled outside toward the van like a giant, cranky Weeble, now nauseous from the sight of the meat by-products. Reaching for the door handle, I heard a sound no one wants to hear when they’re freezing to death in the middle of West Desolation, Iowa:

“SNICK!”

The engine hummed contentedly. It was so cold outside that, despite dire warnings of imprisonment and impending danger from Hollywoodesque explosions printed on the gas pump, my husband had left the van on while gassing up. It really did seem like a good idea at the time.

My nose-hairs froze solid, into little internal nose-needles as I gazed mutely into the warm, lit interior of my minivan. Our well-fed cat, Baby Kitty, stared back. He was totally unconcerned with my plight.

Stepping off of the passenger door button panel, Baby paced the dashboard. Then, curling himself up in the driver’s seat, he settled in comfortably. We continued to stare at each other. Cats are good at that, and they almost always win. Baby was a pro. Hissing at me, he sharpened his fingernails on my seat, staring at me some more.

I went back into the store to break the news to my family. And to pee. Again.

“You need to call AAA.” I said to my husband. He gave me a strange look. I think he was afraid to ask. By this time, we’d been married a few years. He’d long since advanced from, “oh, that really wouldn’t ever happen,” to, “please dear god don’t let it get any worse.” I saw fear in his eyes.

He stuffed the rest of what was probably his ninth Polish into his mouth before asking me the overused and generally dreaded, “What happened this time?”

“Baby locked us out. I reached for the handle, and he jumped on the button. I think he did it on purpose. Please call AAA.” I perused the aisle of the store as my husband used the phone to call for road service, only to learn that it would be at least two-to-three hours because of the blizzard, if at all. He fumed, calling the cat several interesting and creative names and making vague references to the wood chipper and the compost heap.

Then I saw a little dangling cat toy in the store’s pet section and had my first brilliant idea since, well, I got pregnant.

I did what had to be done: I made my husband go out into the blizzard to coax Baby to walk on the “unlock” button and free us.

I watched out the window as he tried to coax the cat up onto the door handle. Wiggling his fingers left and right, he tried getting the cat’s hunting instincts going. I’m pretty sure Baby was psychic, and he knew my husband wanted to kill him. The feeling had always been mutual.

My husband jumped to grab the handle; then he had a tantrum. The cat had cruelly teased him, unlocking the door only to lock it back up with another foot less than a second later.

As I choked back my laughter, he stalked back into the store, growling about how “animals [had] no place living alongside humans and that they all should be thrown out in the cold because they have fur.”

Handing him another Polish dog, I stepped out into the howling wind.

Leaning against the passenger door, I rubbed food slowly along the window, refusing to look at him. In less than two minutes, I heard the click of toenails on the window. Baby hated being ignored almost as much as he loved food. He squeaked at me; the food moved slowly across the window. Tracking it, he tiptoed across the dash, avoiding the door.

Ready to give up and send the husband back out for a turn, I heard that wonderful:

“SNICK!”

I’d like to say that Baby had cooperated, but he’d actually tripped over himself and fell on the button while begging.

I was literally bouncing when I went back inside, this time with the key. He said, “Wow. You can bounce. I’m impressed.” He looked at my belly and said, “Don’t do that anymore, Ok?” I considered kicking him in the ankle as I waddled off to pee again before we left.

In all, it only cost us about an hour. Unlike that time in Kearny, Nebraska.

written by vic