Oatmeal Cookie

The concept of Camping to my family is equivalent to radiation exposure.  That said, going camping is basically like going to Chernobyl.   My dad didn’t have the same opinion. Why my parents were set on immigrating  to a small cowboy town in central Alberta from the hot desert heat in the Middle East  is beyond me.  But that’s what they did and that’s what we did for a large chunk of my childhood.   There aren’t any regrets there, it’s just a weird decision.

Whenever we met another brown person on the street it was instant friendship.   If they were attached to a whole brown family, that was like winning the lottery.  Then comes countless dinners, visits and Muslim-friendly family activities.  The friendships were -- for the most part -- empty.  We never had anything in common with the Khomaynis from Bangladesh or the Saids from Afghanistan.  We were all just brown. Fortunately for all parties involved  that meant that the union usually dissolved after a few months.  

One family had 2 kids around the same age as my sister and I.   And both dads wanted to try camping.    We compromised by making it a day-trip to a forest.  We hiked but mostly ate.  Who knew curry can travel so well?!  Everyone complained about the bathroom situation and the lack thereof so we didn’t so much ‘hike’ as “took a short walk around some tall trees’’.    We all drove home around dusk and complained about the torture that was endured.  My mother says, “If I wanted to spend my day out in the dirt with no bathroom or air conditioning I could’ve just stayed in Kuwait”.    Everyone but my father nod in agreement.   “Never. Again.” was the unspoken pact.

I thought that was going to be the end of the relationship with that particular family but it wasn’t.  We had one or two more visits.  We had to go see their new home.  They didn’t have as much water damage in their bathroom as we did, so that was cool to witness.   After the grand tour of the 2 bedroom townhouse, the kids were sent out to play.  I remember being constantly annoyed by the high-pitched voice of the little girl and the general stickiness of the little boy who was around 5 or 6.  My sister felt the same way.  But we played, I guess.    

Since we didn’t have a ball, net or stick,  we ran around the backyard for a couple of minutes in the tufts of grass and dirt.  The laps eventually turned into an impromptu game of tag, which I’ve always hated due to the concept of having to be touched in order to be tagged.   But we ran and we touched while I kept one eye trained on my parents to see when and if they were going to announce that we were going home.   

The girl shrieked and ran blindly in circles the entire time. My sister half-heartedly participated and ran after the little boy.  He was quicker than I expected.  He also took great joy in tagging and pushing everyone.   Finally (FINALLY!), the parents call for a snack break.  Oatmeal cookies and milk.  President’s Choice brand.   I munched happily on  handfuls, sometimes 2 or 3 at a time.  They were small and kind of stale.  I hate milk but I washed down the crumbs with big, thirsty gulps.  

To my left I see the little boy come barreling towards me.  He knocks me backwards and as I gain my footing I catch his eyes.  They’re wild and manic --animalistic--  and he was covered in Oatmeal cookie.  His giant grin exposed barred teeth, much  like a Doberman. Cold white milk dripped down the corners of his lips.  A prominent milk moustache embedded itself into his upper lip.  We’re brown, remember, so puberty and excessive hair growth starts at around the age of 6. Milk drops were forming on his already impressive moustache.  I mean, I was impressed because mine hadn’t been that thick at the time (yet). He wanted to keep playing. Fine, I’ll  play if it means I can run away from this little monster.

Our impromptu, rule-less game of Tag continues at that point.   I put down the cookies and milk and run a few more laps.  At one point I manage to sneak a glance at my sister and we both shake our heads.   Telepathically we were both saying, “What I would’ve done for a remote and a TV instead of this farm animal bullshit.”   

I barrel left when I see the boy come running straight towards me but my sneakered toe gets buried into a tuft of soft brown dirt.   I try to quickly get unstuck but in the process end up crossing my feet, getting tangled up and falling to my face.   At the exact moment,  the little monster crashed into my flailing body and we go down together.  He was shrieking and laughing even before he hit the ground and was up just as quickly, running away with his arms now held up over his head.  I shake it off and see that the cookie I had stuffed into my sleeve was lying on the ground.  I pick it up.

Finally (FINALLY) the game begins to wind down.   A chilly breeze has replaced the warm sunshine as day turns into evening.    I take a quick bite of cookie and wipe sweat off my wet bangs and forehead.   Someone makes a joke and I laugh but in the back of my mind I’m aware that a strange sensation was in my mouth.    Mingled with the cookie crumbs was a syrupy texture.   I swallow and go for another bite because it must be maple syrup or...oatmeal juice? I don’t know.

Then I see it.  The ‘’syrup’’ was actually a giant wad of creamy and sickly-looking saliva. They call that a Loogie, I think.  If you ever stroll through a bad area of town and walk you usually see them gleaming like silver coins on the sidewalk. Usually someone hacking a cig and producing them.  

In the setting sun a corner it shined like a yellowish, creamy diamond out of a Dali painting. It dripped down one side and tiny bubbles formed a pearl-like outline.  There is a very prominent mucus center that bubbled up, framed by an almost-clear translucent border.  A yellowish hue covered the entire circumference.  

All of this is jarring enough but the worst of it was the jagged edge.   That corner where I had taken that first bite.   I had bitten off a chunk of Loog’.   Remnants dripped down the bite mark and wrapped around to the other side like stringy mozzarella.   What wasn’t there was in my body, sliding down to my stomach.  It must’ve completed the marathon in record time considering all the lubrication.  I realize with a dizzying jolt that it wasn’t my cookie nor my Loogie.    My sleeve was now caked on the underside by a mash of oatmeal crumbs.  What I had picked up off of the ground and eaten was a cookie that was in the monster’s tiny, sweaty hand, had neared his mouth enough to be coated by his body discharge, and marinated in whatever animal shit had been caked into the yard dirt. 

The nausea was instantaneous.  I opened my mouth but no sound came out.   Gargling noises from the back of my throat expressed my horror.  I looked at him, he looked completely clueless.  I looked at him harder with hatred.   Nothing, still just a blank stare.

I look around but the process intensified the sick feeling that had possessed me.   I let out a bloodcurdling scream and vomit flies out.   Wet chunks in all shades of brown and yellow tumble in waves.  I swear, I saw the Loogie still in tact.  That thought alone produces another round of vomit.   I continue to let loose until my body feels weak, shaky and limply fall to the floor.  

A few positive things and one negative happened then:  My parents quickly scooped me up and carted my limp body home, so we got to go home earlier than usual.   Second, we never saw the family again.   I don’t know how or why, but it worked.  Perhaps the humiliation was unbearable.  Or perhaps the family was offended by my actions. Either way the only real emotion I felt was satisfaction when we left for the last time.   The negative thing was that I will never eat another President’s Choice oatmeal cookie again.  

The following week my dad ran into a new Pakistani immigrant at the local grocery store who had a couple of kids…..