Flo, Otis, and the President's Desk

Mama Ravenwood was watching me closely with her small dark eyes that were set too close together in her stern, frown-lined face. The red beans were crunchy and seasoned with . . . dirt? . . . and the rice was watery.

But by-golly I had better choke it down one tiny spoonful at a time.

“Oh, Mama, Florence here—well, I call her ‘Flo’—she has a boy.” He looked over at me. “How old is little Jack now? 10?” I nodded, and he continued. “Yeah, so he’s a cute kid. You’d like him.”

“I’m sure,” she said, smiling at Otis warmly and then turning to face me again as her smile very slowly transformed into the crazed glare of a psychopath.

Poor ol’ Otis must think this is normal—both the nauseating food and his creepy mama. He sat there with his head inches from his bowl, shoveling in the “food” and staring at the center of the table like a starving adolescent. Does he have different food in his bowl than I have in mine? I suddenly wondered.

We continued feasting in a long, painful silence. For the life of me, I couldn’t think of a single thing to say. I found myself compulsively counting along with the ticking of the wall clock. Whenever I looked up to see if she was still watching me, the corners of her thin lips would curl slightly upward, making her look more like cannibal fattening her prey than a sweet old lady.

I curled my own lips upward and tried to think of something else.

I had a growing affection for Otis. I think it was initially his bad-boy appearance—with his thick graying beard and his sleeveless Harley Davidson t-shirts. But that initial attraction had become more of a genuine affection as his sweet nature emerged. Now that I had finally met his mama, I had to wonder: Where did that sweetness come from? . . . ‘cuz it sure didn’t come from THAT OLD HAG, I thought and almost laughed out loud.

“What’s s’ funny?” she asked.

“Hmmm?” I feigned confusion.

“I seen you smile to yer self,” she announced, putting down her spoon.

“Oh! I guess I was thinking about the . . . um . . . the beautiful drive over here—over the mountain pass. That drive just makes me happy,” I explained, feeling a bit hysterical as the light in the room flickered. A verse from “Hotel California” suddenly played in my mind.

Otis and I had taken his 1978 Ford Bronco over Snoqualmie Pass that afternoon to his mama’s place near Yakima, Washington. It was July 1992, and we had been “dating”—more like hanging out drinking beer on his front porch—for several months.

The drive over the Pass was magnificent. The chartreuse and emerald of the Pacific mountain forest seemed to shimmer in the angle of the summer sun on our way up the mountain, and in some spots up high, a slight fog made the sun's rays shine through the trees like spotlights.

Even better, I was feeling particularly cute that day. I had on my tightest jeans, a low-cut top under a long-sleeved flannel shirt, and my new wedges. I had foregone my usual ponytail and let my long, dark hair flow freely, falling prettily down passed my shoulders. I was one HOT mama, I thought.

It had been the perfect day, but the lingering mood from that drive was quickly giving way to a surreal terror.

“Otis, baby,” his mama said. “I made you a chocolate cake. Yer favorite.” She smiled sweetly at him and then gave me a bit of side-eye as her smile faded.

“Great, mama,” he said. “I’ll take a big piece.” He looked over at me. “You’ll love mama’s chocolate cake.”

“I’ll take just a little piece,” I said as she got up to retrieve the cake. “I’m trying to cut back.” I patted my flat stomach stupidly as I realized I was the only one in the room who didn’t need to cut back. My brain interrupted with an image of a large kitchen knife. Stop it! I shouted in my head at my own self. I was being ridiculous.

With his mama out of the room, Otis whispered to me, “I know she’s not the cook that you are, but she’s trying to impress you, I think.”

My eyes widened. “Sweetie, I don’t think she likes me,” I whispered back.

“Nah. She’s bein’ nicer to you than she was to anyone else I’ve ever brought home to meet her,” he insisted earnestly.

I nodded but thought . . . This explain why Otis hasn’t ever married. Maybe it explains why I’ve never met anyone he’s ever dated! I imagined their bones in Mama Ravenwood’s basement.

I had actually known Otis for years because he was my neighbor and had come to my rescue on occasion after my ex finally took off. Ol’ Otis had more MAN in his left earlobe than my ex had in his . . . . My train of thought trailed off before I could get caught suppressing a laugh again as Mama walked back into the room.

My piece of cake looked on the verge of growing mold, but I managed to quiet the voice in my head as the axe-murderer set my plate in front of me.

After wolfing down his piece of cake, Otis and his mama shared some small talk, and then I gave him our secret signal that it was time to leave: “Otis, did we remember to feed Cowboy [the dog],” I said, looking at him anxiously and glancing toward the door to make sure he caught the signal. It was getting dark, the drive over the mountain could take hours, and I couldn’t sit in the same room with this woman any longer.

“Mrs. Ravenwood, where could I find your restroom?” I asked, knowing there would be miles and miles of dark forest with nowhere to stop for most of the journey.

When I emerged from the bathroom, Mama Ravenwood was patting Otis on his cheek a little too sharply and grinning in such a way that her canine teeth were prominent. With “Hotel California” still paying in my head, we finally made our escape.

“Well, whadya think?” Otis asked as we pulled back onto Interstate 82 in his old Bronco.

Bless his heart. “Hmmm.” I stalled for time. “Can I think about it for a while?”

He glanced over at me questioningly and then shrugged. The Bronco stayed quiet for miles.

We were nearing Interstate 90 at Ellensburg when I noticed that the gas indicator was edging close to the E. “Otis, shouldn’t we stop here and get some gas?”

“Nah, my gas gage is funky. We have plenty of gas to get over the Pass. Trust me,” he said as he turned to grin at me. His smile seemed to glow eerily at me as oncoming headlights crossed his face.

I knew the town of Cle Elum was up ahead so didn’t worry too much. I wanted Otis to think I trusted him, after all.

Cle Elum came and went. I turned to Otis. “Are you SURE we shouldn’t stop and get gas?” I said a little nervously.

“Nah, we’re good,” he said as he turned and smiled at me.

“Oookkkkaaaayyy,” I dragged out anxiously. I’m just not that much of a risk-taker, I realized for the first time. I prayed silently on and off for miles. As we made our way up the mountain, I kept hearing a low rumbling. Was that my stomach, or the Bronco? I wondered.

The rumble got louder and was joined by some sputtering.

Oh, no! My stomach suddenly seized up in a cramp like no other I had ever felt . . . just as the Bronco sputtered.

And died. (The Bronco did. Not me. Although I wanted to die in that moment.)

There was no one and nothing in sight for miles in either direction, and my intestines had become twisted up in knots. If I didn’t find a bathroom soon, . . . I was going to . . . NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, I thought.

I leaped out of the Bronco just as my bowels suddenly exploded. All inside my tight jeans. I could fill it running down my legs.

Otis was on the other side of the Bronco but saw my face. “What’s wrong, Baby?” he asked.

“STAY OVER THERE!” I shouted.

“No baby, what’s wrong?” He started moving around the back of the Bronco.

“STAY OVER THERE! DON’T COME NEAR ME!” I screamed and started racing around the Bronco away from him. Around and around, as the diarrhea was oozing further down my pant legs. “STAY AWAY FROM ME!” I screamed again.

Just then, we saw headlights and stopped our cartoonish chase around the Bronco.

It was a state trooper. He was slowing down.

What am I going to do? I thought desperately. Do I have any extra pants with me? Anything I could change into right here?

The police car pulled up behind us. Surely, this cop had seen Otis chasing me around the Bronco. Ohmygosh! This cannot get any worse!

“Can I help you folks?” Out stepped the most handsome cop I had ever seen in my life. Think a cross between a young Mark Harmon and a current Owen Wilson with just a bit of his crooked nose. He was nicely filling out that uniform and looking at Otis suspiciously.

“Um,” I interrupted. “I have shit my pants,” I said and then coughed out the first sob.

They both looked over at me and stared with their mouths open as I cried.

“Oh, sweetie,” said Otis. “Is that what happened?”

“No, I just . . . THOUGHT IT WOULD BE FUNNY TO SAY THAT!” I shouted. “Of course, that’s what happened. Stay away from me!” I tried to yell through my gasping sobs.

“Honey, it’s ok. I promise.” He came toward me as I backed away.

Finally, he caught me and put his arms around me. “I love you, and I would still love you even if you shit all over the president’s desk in the white house,” he said.

That made me laugh. Out loud. I was laughing with tears running down my face and hiccup-sobbing at the same time. What a mess. It was like every orifice had opened up.

The handsome cop had gotten closer to us and was wiping his nose with a tissue, or maybe he was holding his nose?

“I have an idea,” said Otis suddenly with wide eyes. He turned around, bent over, and farted as loud as he could.

I have loved that man from that moment on and will love him forever.

But I never trust him when it comes to gas! I mean, hydrocarbons. That kind of gas.