Yup. Hulk mad. A couple of weeks ago, I took an impromptu trip out to Block Island to see my parents (and, arguably, to get away—the lack of Wi-Fi and terrible cell phone signals out there pretty much force one to stop working and, say, do a crossword). Of course, to get to the island, you have two choices: boat or plane.
I went with boat this trip, mostly because it’s cheaper. (When I was younger, I always flew, white-knuckling it for twelve minutes straight while regretting every Buddy Holly joke I’d ever cracked. But back then, the quickness of the trip won out over frugality.)
I got to the ferry dock early, walked right on the boat, and made myself comfortable. I was feeling smug: I’d gotten a good seat, had bottled iced coffee on hand to satisfy my caffeine addiction, and was ready to fire up the Kindle and read a good book.
Then the people came.
The bridal party was first. Twelve women, all young and cute, wearing T-shirts reading “Bride’s Drinking Team.” Classy. Also, from the way they smelled and slurred, I suspected the imbibing had already started well before they’d found their way to the 8:00 ferry. My best guess is they’d begun the night before, and hadn’t yet made it to bed.
Great.
I tried not to let their drunken screeching bother me, telling myself things like you’ve got to admire their stamina and oh, good. They’re moving toward the front (I was near the back). Then a family of three—a dad, a boy about five, and a girl around eight—settled in across the aisle from me.
Cute, I thought. From the boy’s prattling, it was his first boat trip ever, and he was very excited. “I’m Batman, and Daddy, you can be Robin, and Annamarie is Wonder Woman.”
I’m not usually a fan of children, but this guy was winning my heart with his lisp and innoc--
“And that lady can be the Hulk.”
Wait, what?
I glanced around, then down at my top, one I’d thought was a complimentary shade of emerald. Note to self: this green shirt is not as flattering as I think it is. I gave the little brat a scowl, which apparently delighted him, because he squealed in laughter and shouted, “Hulk mad!”
Okay, I’m an adult. I can ignore twelve drunk bridesmaids and a five-year-old calling me fat. I stared at my Kindle, rereading the same sentence three or seventeen times before finally relaxing and getting into the story.
Twelve seconds before the ferry took off, the seat next to me was suddenly filled by a musician. How do I know she was a musician? Because her gigantic guitar case was crammed between seat and aisle, now effectively blocking my path to the bathroom.
I was sipping on my third iced coffee at that point.
I offered the musician a weak smile. It wasn’t an emergency—yet. I returned to my book, the ferry took off, and we were on our way. How bad could it be?
The ride was rocky. And slow. Normally, this trip takes just over an hour, but one hour in, I still couldn’t see the island’s coastline. My bladder lurched with every heave of the ferry over the waves. I wasn’t going to make it. “Excuse me?” I asked the musician. “Can I get by?” The words potty emergency were on the tip of my tongue, but not needed—she was happy to move the guitar. As a bonus, she jerked it a little too hard, accidentally slamming the knee of the “she can be the Hulk” kid. That’s right: the Hulk actually smiled at his tears.
I hustled to the row of airplane-like bathrooms, and glanced up to find all six of them bore red signs reading “Occupied.” I crossed my legs. Did a little wiggly dance. Waited.
And waited.
The boat was docking now, and I still hadn’t made it into a stall. But there was no way I was going to make it down the plank without wetting my pants (the count was now up to four coffees, people).
Now, I’m not one to do this normally, but action was called for: I knocked on the first door. “Excuse me? We have a potty emergency out here!” I paused. And from all six stalls echoed back the unmistakable sound of bridesmaids projectile vomiting.
Next time, I’m taking the plane.
I went with boat this trip, mostly because it’s cheaper. (When I was younger, I always flew, white-knuckling it for twelve minutes straight while regretting every Buddy Holly joke I’d ever cracked. But back then, the quickness of the trip won out over frugality.)
I got to the ferry dock early, walked right on the boat, and made myself comfortable. I was feeling smug: I’d gotten a good seat, had bottled iced coffee on hand to satisfy my caffeine addiction, and was ready to fire up the Kindle and read a good book.
Then the people came.
The bridal party was first. Twelve women, all young and cute, wearing T-shirts reading “Bride’s Drinking Team.” Classy. Also, from the way they smelled and slurred, I suspected the imbibing had already started well before they’d found their way to the 8:00 ferry. My best guess is they’d begun the night before, and hadn’t yet made it to bed.
Great.
I tried not to let their drunken screeching bother me, telling myself things like you’ve got to admire their stamina and oh, good. They’re moving toward the front (I was near the back). Then a family of three—a dad, a boy about five, and a girl around eight—settled in across the aisle from me.
Cute, I thought. From the boy’s prattling, it was his first boat trip ever, and he was very excited. “I’m Batman, and Daddy, you can be Robin, and Annamarie is Wonder Woman.”
I’m not usually a fan of children, but this guy was winning my heart with his lisp and innoc--
“And that lady can be the Hulk.”
Wait, what?
I glanced around, then down at my top, one I’d thought was a complimentary shade of emerald. Note to self: this green shirt is not as flattering as I think it is. I gave the little brat a scowl, which apparently delighted him, because he squealed in laughter and shouted, “Hulk mad!”
Okay, I’m an adult. I can ignore twelve drunk bridesmaids and a five-year-old calling me fat. I stared at my Kindle, rereading the same sentence three or seventeen times before finally relaxing and getting into the story.
Twelve seconds before the ferry took off, the seat next to me was suddenly filled by a musician. How do I know she was a musician? Because her gigantic guitar case was crammed between seat and aisle, now effectively blocking my path to the bathroom.
I was sipping on my third iced coffee at that point.
I offered the musician a weak smile. It wasn’t an emergency—yet. I returned to my book, the ferry took off, and we were on our way. How bad could it be?
The ride was rocky. And slow. Normally, this trip takes just over an hour, but one hour in, I still couldn’t see the island’s coastline. My bladder lurched with every heave of the ferry over the waves. I wasn’t going to make it. “Excuse me?” I asked the musician. “Can I get by?” The words potty emergency were on the tip of my tongue, but not needed—she was happy to move the guitar. As a bonus, she jerked it a little too hard, accidentally slamming the knee of the “she can be the Hulk” kid. That’s right: the Hulk actually smiled at his tears.
I hustled to the row of airplane-like bathrooms, and glanced up to find all six of them bore red signs reading “Occupied.” I crossed my legs. Did a little wiggly dance. Waited.
And waited.
The boat was docking now, and I still hadn’t made it into a stall. But there was no way I was going to make it down the plank without wetting my pants (the count was now up to four coffees, people).
Now, I’m not one to do this normally, but action was called for: I knocked on the first door. “Excuse me? We have a potty emergency out here!” I paused. And from all six stalls echoed back the unmistakable sound of bridesmaids projectile vomiting.
Next time, I’m taking the plane.
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