Pfffft, It was not me this time !

Recently, I found myself sitting in a doctor's waiting room while waiting on a friend to come out from his checkup. The details aren't important, and his condition was neither life-threatening nor contagious. The important detail is simply this: it was my first trip to this particular waiting room, and I don’t think I would mind a bit if it were also my last.

First of all, there was the usual waiting room nonsense. You sit there waiting while people come and go through the different doors of the waiting room. I tend to spend the time watching people as I try to read or glance through the months old magazines. The long and boring dawdling of the office staff, the moldy and uncomfortable chairs (why don’t they clean them sometimes). I can deal with these things as it reminds me of an apartment I lived in many years ago that had some of these things in it. I'm cool with that, bored but ok while waiting.

But on this day, in this waiting room, something just a little different happened. Different, and somewhat unsettling as sometimes I find myself in similar situations. I'll explain. I do have to admit, it was nice not being the one under the microscope for once.

In this particular waiting room, there are about a dozen chairs for patients to slouch in while queuing up to have their creaky parts fondled, prodded, and/or realigned. When I arrived there were four or five people sitting there waiting. I took a seat in the middle of a line of four empty chairs near the door, being careful to leave the all-important 'buffer chair' separating me from the portly, corn starched looking gentleman to my right. I picked up an issue of Sports Illustrated from 1983 or so - - I hear there's some kid at UNC named 'Jordan' or something who might be pretty good someday - - and settled in for the wait after my friend was taken back to one of the exam rooms.

That's when she walked in. Of all the doctor's offices in Alaska, she had to walk into the one I was semi-happily waiting. Let’s see . . . she was . . . how shall I put it . . . a rather large woman. I'm not sure how much more delicately I can put it but she was huge. I mean a big woman . . . if she had on a yellow raincoat and bent over she might be mistaken for a taxi and a couple of small men could jump in ready for a ride downtown or somewhere else. She was also a bit older than me - - in her late fifties perhaps - - tall and wide and breathing heavily from the exertion of making her way down the hallway leading to the office. I glanced up when she first walked into the room, then went back to minding my business reading the magazine. I barely gave her another thought . . . until she sat down next to me.

Now don't get me wrong, I didn't mind sitting next to this lady. I'll sit next to just about anyone . . . just about. I'm certain there are far more people out there who probably wouldn't want to sit next to me than the other way around. This would especially be true, I think, once people get to know me. No question, I have my moments that tend to give people a rise. Especially when they figure out what my Icewind name means.

But the thing is, she needlessly violated the sanctity of the 'buffer chair' space beside me. There were other empty seats around the office, even a couple with empties on each side - - there was absolutely no call for busting up my buffer, or anyone else's if truth be told. There's a protocol to these things, and she just ignored it completely. You don't invade someone's personal space without a good reason. For men, you don't use the urinal between two guys without an exceptionally good reason (and I have already written about that earlier), and you don't occupy someone's buffer seat, either. It wasn't the worst thing she could have done, but it wasn't cool in my view.

Besides, the worst thing she could have done was coming next so stick with me here as I lay this out for you. Get a drink, relax, and sit back and I’ll tell you what happened.

She comes over next to me and sits down, and proceeds to get settled in, gives me a half smile and then laid her purse on the floor, on the side away from me and my chair. By that time, I was already engrossed in my SI again, reading about how some Doubleday fellow had invented some new game or another. Baseball, I think it was called. The magazine apologized for not having any pictures in it, but I think they actually hadn’t been invented when the issue came out. The game sounded kinda complicated and with me being originally from Atlanta there was a time the Atlanta Braves could not do anything right. Luckily, they developed a farm club and finally won a World Series before I left town.

Here's the part of what happened where I need a bit of help with the question of etiquette. I'll tell you what happened, and tell you what I did - - then maybe you can tell me what I should have done. Or possibly shouldn't.

After just a few seconds in the chair, the lady's purse fell over. As I mentioned before, it was on the other side of her feet from me, so I think I heard it, but didn't actually see it fall over. Remember I was ‘reading’ my Sports Illustrated and I might not have realized what the noise was even though I did hear something. There was this old man across the room snoring but that was not the noise I had heard.

She immediately bent over away from me, her arms reaching out and down to straighten her purse and pick things up.

All of a sudden she farted.

Loudly!

Sort of - - I'm not quite sure how to describe this - - sort of a wet and bubbly sound. Not exactly loud enough that you'd think she'd had an 'accident', per se - - but it wasn't a petite little 'pfffft', by any means. This was a small firecracker of a fart. One that you were glad was not coming from you own body but funny enough to get your attention.

And then . . . while she struggled with her purse . . . she farted again. This time around with only slightly less fanfare or maybe it sounded like the big bang followed by a pop-gun reply.

And with that, it was over.

She rose again to a sitting position, and went back to her wait. There was nothing out of her, no chuckle, not a sideways glance, or acknowledgement of any kind.

Meanwhile, I stared, transfixed, at my magazine. And I tried desperately not to inhale. It's one thing to accidentally float an air biscuit in public - - it happens; we've all been there and for me it happens probably more than I care to admit. It's embarrassing for all parties involved, and the less said, the better I guess. I even tried to keep from laughing under my breath which was no small feat in and of it self.

No big deal?

But this time . . . this time . . . I was not only at point-blank range from a two-barreled rear retort from this stranger sitting beside me, but both barrels had been pointed directly at me when the firing started. If those aren't 'extenuating circumstances', Damnit, then I don't know what is!

I have to admit, I didn't know what to do in that situation. At least, what would be proper to do, or perhaps humane to those sitting around the room who may have also heard this mini explosion coming from this very large woman sitting next to me. A few things raced through my head, but most involved a clothespin or a wine bottle cork, which I was fresh out of, sitting in a doctor's office lobby as I was. I’m not MacGyver you know.

To make a long story short, I didn't do anything. I tried hard to keep reading my magazine . . . while trying not to inhale. A few minutes later she was called into the doctor's office.

And that was the end of it . . . we never exchanged words, or even a look.

There was no 'Oh dear, excuse me!' on her part, and no 'Holy mother of methane, what the hell was that?!' on mine. We pretended it never happened and hoped - - I think I can also speak for her on this one - - that we'd never see each other again.

So that's what happened. I went with a friend for a checkup, and got noisily farted on. I guess I should be thankful I wasn't going in myself for surgery or some other procedure (where I could have been contaminated); who knows what would have happened?

I'm not sure I did the right thing, exactly but I'm pretty sure I didn't do the worst thing possible. This sort of thing isn't covered in 'Robert’s Rules of Order', or anywhere else for that matter as far as I can tell, so I was in a bit of a 'gray area' or was it ‘brown’, as interpersonal negotiations goes?

I did what I thought best at the time, which was absolutely nothing at all. Not the best part of the story, I suppose, but that's what happened. I wanted to be or do something “funny” which is very much my nature but thought better of it at the time, so there you have it.

So now you tell me, Dear Abby’s and Miss Manners of the internet . . . what would you have done, exactly?

Have a great Thanksgiving everyone! !

Ice