Calypso(51)

Andy was in front of four other people, I thought, turning the page and looking up briefly from the podium. Multiply that by five hundred.

After the reading there was an equally precarious book signing. “Do you ever meet people who have a gastrointestinal virus?” I asked a woman after learning she was a nurse.

“Oh yes,” she told me.

“And what do you recommend they do?”

“Well, there’s not much you can do, really,” she said. “Drink plenty of fluids, something with electrolytes like Gatorade. Rest. You probably don’t feel like eating, but you should force yourself to get something down. That’s all I can tell you.”



I’d hoped that by the following morning I’d be back to normal, but there was no change. I’d gotten up three times during the night and was still passing a paint can’s worth of rusty water every two hours or so. Where on earth is this coming from? I wondered. My eyes? Did I have great stores of liquid hidden in my neck? My calves? I had to go to Des Moines, so I put an extra pair of dark slacks in my carry-on tote bag, just in case the worst happened during the flight. I thought of picking up a ski mask as well—that’s what you really need: something to conceal your identity as you make the walk of shame. But in this day and age—on a plane—a ski mask would only get you tackled. This while you’re already nauseated and plastered with your own feces.

The thing about a stomach virus is that it exhausts you. Brushing my teeth wore me out. When it came time to put on my shoes, all I could do was stare down at them and whimper. At the airport I wanted nothing more than to rest. I couldn’t, though, because I had my Fitbit to consider—that and the Apple Watch I wear right above it on the same wrist. Every night it sends me a notice congratulating me on my longest-running move streak. I’d met all my requirements—standing time, exercise minutes, and calories burned—for 360 days, and there was no way I was going to ruin my perfect record. The minimum for my Fitbit is four and a half miles, but for my watch it’s closer to seven, hardly an unreasonable distance unless, like me, even standing upright is a challenge.

Yet still, after checking my suitcase, I put one foot in front of the other and dragged myself from Terminal A to D and back. “Must meet Fitbit and watch requirements,” I moaned between clenched teeth, staggering forward. “Must be mentally and physically ill at the same time.” Two miles later I boarded my flight and put what little energy I still had back into fearing I might shit in my pants in front of a planeful of people.

How is this my life? I asked myself as I settled into my seat with a bottle of Gatorade, perhaps the greatest indignity of all. “What flavor is that?” the man beside me asked.

I looked at the bottle. “Blue.”

For that’s all Gatorade ever tastes like—its color. Over the period that I had my stomach virus, I tried them all: blue, red, green, yellow, orange, and a new opaque one that tasted opaque.



One of my watch’s more irritating features is an hourly reminder to get off my ass. I’ll often be at the podium toward the end of a show and feel what amounts to a light tap on my wrist, followed by a message: Time to stand up.

What do you think I’ve been doing for the past eighty minutes? I want to shout, wondering where it gets its information from.

The watch is seemingly calibrated to whichever plane I’m on, so the moment we hit turbulence or are instructed to prepare for a landing, I can expect the tap. “Please sit down and fasten your seat belts,” the flight attendant says.

Stand up and be my crazy slave, the watch counters.

I realized not long ago that if I put my hands in front of me and rub the palms together for a minute, the way I might if I were cold or were watching a very slow waiter bring something to my table that I was really looking forward to, I can fool the watch and be rewarded with the Congratulations, you did it! message.

Some would call this cheating, but on an average day I far exceed my standing goal, so in my mind I’m covered. Plus, I only rub my hands together when traveling. At home, when instructed to stand, I do something useful—empty the scrap bucket into the compost bin, hang a few shirts on the clothesline.

“Did you just do a load of laundry?” Hugh will ask.

“No,” I’ll tell him. “I just wanted to leave my desk and get a few steps in. Those shirts are dirty.” At home I can adhere more strictly to my beloved routine, which has always been very important to me. More important than anything, I used to think. Then touring came along—aka money—and I decided I could maybe learn to wing it for a while.

In an average year I might spend three and a half months on the road, more if I have a new book out. “Does Hugh come with you?” people regularly ask.

“No,” I tell them. “I mean, he’d like to, but what with his wheelchair it would be pretty hard.”

The person who asked then nods respectfully, no doubt sorry that he or she brought it up.

“I have to wash him and feed him and get him in and out of bed. It takes a great deal of time, so when I’m away I hire someone to do all that for me.”

Another understanding nod.

Sometimes I leave it at that, and sometimes I admit that I’m kidding and explain that Hugh has better things to do than accompany me to Des Moines. “I’m just surprised that you believed the wheelchair business,” I say. “Not that there’s anything wrong with being a quadriplegic, but given all the times I’ve mentioned Hugh in print, being paralyzed from the neck down is a pretty big thing to leave out, don’t you think?”