Flatulent Free?

This was a short story I wrote while taking a writing class.  I wonder what my children will think of me when they are old enough to read this? :-)

Grape Nuts was my cereal of choice for breakfast. Mistake number one. Normally my digestive track is unbothered by the fiber, but I think maybe the bran muffin (mistake number two) that I ate in the car while on my way to work might have had something to do with the unusual amount of gurgling and bubbling my intestines were kneading through that day. I managed to make it through the day without polluting the air; however by the time I stepped in the elevator that evening, my normally flabby stomach was rather taut. Thankfully the elevator was empty when I began my descent from the 10th floor to the first floor lobby. Unable to contain the pressure any longer, as soon the elevator doors closed, I freed a rather potent S.B.D..(Silent But Deadly) The pressure relief was so intense, it gave me goose bumps. Then, it happened. At floor seven, the elevator paused.

The broken wind and malicious odor blew me to a memory of a family car ride we took when I was a kid and my feelings about flatulence back then.

Nose lifted in the air, sniffing like a beagle trying to find a trail, my little brother exclaimed, “Nice one gramma!!” It took my own nose a second (but only a second) to realize that he was referring to the week old rotten egg stench that now polluted the air inside dad’s old vintage classic car. Seated to my right, Gramma smiled proudly at her grandson’s accolade.

“Thank you dear. I’ve been saving that one just for you.”

“Can we please roll down the windows,” I begged.

“Not unless you want to get wet,” my mother complained referring to the endless downpour we were driving through.

“Well at least I’ll be able to breathe!!” I cried.

Much to my lungs’ dismay, the sealed windows imprisoned the humidity which amplified Gramma’s expunged gas. Driving, Dad focused intently on the road in front of him, ignoring the fresh smell of manure. On my left, I couldn’t tell from Uncle Jack’s clenched face if he was daring himself to breathe the poisonous air or envied his own mother’s ability to taint an otherwise stench free environment.

He readjusted his sitting position. I then realized why his face was clenched. The vibration of the vinyl car seat gave him away.

“I am going to die of gas poisoning,” I thought, not amused in the least. My brother was speechless this time, in utter admiration of being able to release such potent gas at will.

“Smells like bacon and eggs,” he muttered in awe, relishing the deathly aroma.

When I was at the ripe old age of twelve, I considered my self a rather intuitive and reflective person. Most kids at the same age still find flatulence funny. (Many adults unfortunately feel the same way.) I, on the other hand, viewed it as people infringing upon my freedom to breathe flatulent free air. I would have much rather inhaled the fumes of second hand cigarette smoke, or a decomposing land fill or the warm, sweet aroma of feces from a near by chicken house. At least with that perverted type of aromatherapy, I usually had the opportunity to evacuate the infected area.

Nope, not this time. Wedged between two flaming, flatulent family members, they took pleasure in sharing the sometimes musical and most of the time rank qualities of their gaseous digestive system. I wondered if all families have odiferous members. I imagined myself as president of the F.A.R.T. support group. (Families/Friends against Rectal Transmission)

I often pondered if this would have a negative effect on my search to find a fart free husband. Maybe we would meet while picketing for fresh air in front of the capital building in D.C., the crowd chanting “Must be flatulent free!!” “One, two, three, four, fart in public no more!” We would join together in our effort lobbying congress to pass the first Free of Flatulence bill.

The elevator eased to a stop on the seventh floor. Now older, my phobia of flatulence has been tamed somewhat. Occasionally, I allow myself to relieve the pent up air pressure in my stomach. It can be a rather liberating experience. However, I would never subject anyone else around me to such a foul bodily function. Well, not intentionally anyway. Sometimes someone comes from behind unexpectedly and the barbarous air bubbles have already been freed. I usually move quickly to another aisle in the grocery store, hoping the innocent victim won’t know that I was the perpetrator. Unfortunately, being stuck in an elevator, I was not that lucky.

“I guess I could get off,” I panicked, “but whoever it is, would still know it was me. And besides, if I don’t get home soon, I might leave behind more than just an aromatic appetite suppressant.” My face flushed red.

“There is no where to go, please don’t anyone get on this elevator,” I pleaded silently.

The fresh aroma reminded me of my eight month old nephew’s diapers. Talk about rank, I think I lost a few nose hairs. The door slid open to a somewhat attractive dark haired guy about my age. My mortification only intensified as he smiled politely and stepped aboard. He pushed the button for the lobby. I stood there awkwardly, hoping he had a cold or sinus infection to protect him for the stinging stench. The door closed trapping the smell once again. After two floors, he turned and smiled at me.

“Nice one. My niece’s diaper’s don’t smell that good.” He said admirably. Flabbergasted, I didn’t know what to say.

I managed to squeak out a “Thanks.” I wasn’t sure if I should be more embarrassed or not. The guy didn’t seem to think twice about it. As I glanced at him from the corner of my eye, he seemed lost in his own thoughts. We marinated in baby poop stench for seven floors until the door opened at the lobby.

“I’ll see you around,” he said grinning as we both stepped off the elevator, leaving its mouth yawning open to claim its next victim. Maybe it would be better not to find a fart free husband after all.