When you live in the middle of nowhere you don’t get to choose your friends. I certainly didn’t choose Tom, the pimply kid who lived a half-mile away from me with his grandma and the derelict uncle who let him drink beer. He was the only other 13-year-old around. When we weren’t throwing oranges at cars or lighting fires, we were in his room watching “Beavis and Butt-head”, and on one such a marathon occasion I was snooping around in his dresser drawers and found a freezer bag full of viscous semi-opaque liquid.
It didn’t hit me until the bike ride home. Boys and the stuff that came out of them were still somewhat of a mystery to me. I wish I could remember Tom’s reaction to me finding his saved up cum bag. It couldn’t have been too drastic because it didn’t phase my cluelessness any.
What was he saving it up for? Posterity? A horrible prank? What are the reasons people have for saving their liquids?
I know of at least one homeless guy who carries his piss around in a mason jar. Then there was that daytime talk show girl who was hiding her bulimia from her parents and threw up in a 30-gallon tote in her closet.
This, my sick mind thought, “deserves some investigation
How about crystallized bottles of basement urine? was my friend’s reaction when I told him what I was investigating. Apparently a friend of his, who was too old to be living in his mother’s basement, didn’t like to leave the computer where he created video games (the kind that went, “If you want the warrior to save the maiden, press Ctrl+9. If you want the warrior to join forces with the dungeon master, press Ctrl+0”).
The computer kid pissed in large mason jars instead of leaving the room and left them lidless on a basement shelf where they dried and formed piss crystals and stunk to high hell.
I asked why he had a friend like that.
Why did you have a friend who would cum in a bag? was his response. Urine and cum and barf. I started really asking around. A childhood relation kept her scabs, boogers and fingernail clippings in the kind of weeklong pill containers that my grandmother uses to remember her medication schedule. If two boogers and an elbow scab left home forever on a Friday, she’d hook them up with a little plastic condo with a big red “F” on the flip top. She’d send them money, keep up their car insurance and hope they’d come home for Thanksgiving.
Some ultraconservative Jews save everything that comes off of them so it might be buried with them. David Bowie went through a period of hoarding in the ‘70s where he kept his urine, hair and fingernail clippings in his fridge so no one could get a hold of them for the purpose of black magic. He also was reportedly snorting retarded amounts of cocaine at the time.
You might know a keeper. You might even be a keeper. Especially around these parts. I was surprised at the plethora of placenta-keepers that stepped out of the closet to talk to me about this one. Did they feel attached to their living baby’s boneless blobby twin? What looks like a lumpy, veiny rib eye occupies a hallowed spot in freezers across Humboldt. One gal’s house sitter defrosted placenta thinking it was beef. Bury that thing under a tree already. Remember the woman in Eureka who saved all her lady blood to dye quilts for Arts Alive?
Why do some of us want to keep our medical waste close to us after it is no longer a part of our bodies? I struggle to add a “moral of the story” ending here. The point, really, is just that people do some strange shit, and sometimes they do it with their bodily fluids. Maybe it’s a reluctance to let parts of themselves go. Whatever the reason, it makes regular slobs like me feel super normal and hygienic; and because the mess in my closet is clothes and shoes and not a bucket of puke, it makes me look good.