Friday 10:22 pm, July 13, 2012

         “Here. Take this.”

 

“I don’t want any of that crap. It tastes like pink chalk.”

 

“Well then, just suffer, Mister.”

 

Eating a large portion of cherries and bags of rotten peanuts he had stolen on the plane is now proving to be an explosive situation late this Friday evening. After the sun has set, so does Mccail. It's 10:22 PM.

 

Sitting trapped within the walls of a narrow bathroom, at Aunt Tilly's Bed and Breakfast, is bad, as tight places are not of his choosing. The room captures and holds the day’s sizzling heat like a Dutch oven, supported by the day’s humidity. To make matters worse, the window has been bolted shut, bringing a tropical weather pattern into this English john.

 

A next-in-line toilet-line begins to grow. One by one they arrive, like ants to food. Each waits their turn patiently for what seems to drag on for an eternity.

 

After knocking politely on the door, a sixty-four-year-old man from New Jersey is the first in line to give up in frustration. He finds a tall bush outside, and it becomes saturated with this evening's tea.

 

Second, third, and fourth are a trio of black ladies; a child holds the rear position. He is visiting from the States. He’s a small quirky kid, with black framed bottle glasses, taped in the centre like a nerd, Jerry Lewis style.

"Well I'll be! Who's in there, Mildred, and are they still alive? It’s been ten minutes! You saw that white gentleman leave. Something needs to be done!"

 

Mildred nods in agreement. Armed to the teeth with toiletries in hand, she is willing and able, if the others are ready, to break down the door and dislodge the squatter.

 

But their wait outside the toilet does not go unnoticed by the innkeeper, Tilly Way.

 

"Is there a parade? Can I join?" she asks.

 

"No, ma'am. I think someone died in there and is too embarrassed to come out."

 

"Pardon me." Tilly presses her head close to the door. "There's others waiting for the privy," she informs the occupant.

 

Silence quickly fills the hallway, thicker than the air within the john. Tilly gingerly jiggles the door knob.

 

Finally a response comes creaking through the door. "It's in use."

 

"Mr Mccail, is that you in there?"

 

An embarrassed and perturbed, "Yes," shoots like a dart.

 

Silence once again waits.

"Well, sir if you could be so kind as to hurry it a bit. Others are in need." Her ruby red lips pucker as she waits for his response.

 

Sounds reverberate from within and then bellow down the hall. Aunt Tilly's mouth quivers as her oil begins to boil.

 

One by one, the other guests leave, with sour memories. That is, all but one. The small child straddles one leg on top of the other, dancing an agonizing dance. He is fifth in line. Tugging on Aunt Tilly's heartstrings, his looks convince her to beg. She pinches his cheek, and then stands tall.

 

"Sir, there is a young child waiting, and if you could please be so kind, I'm sure he'll just be a minute." Her eyes turn back towards the youngster, polite, with a smile.

 

Silence.

 

Nothing.

 

Grabbing the knob full force, she again speaks, this time like a swashbuckler. Each word carves its way through the door, with the force of David's slingshot. "Sir! Sir! You must obey and yield!"

 

The prospect of surrendering his throne to some jackrabbit kid irks Mccail to no end. But...

 

"Alright, alright, alright, already! I'm coming out, but as soon as the kid’s done, I'm coming back in!"

 

Quickly stepping out, Mccail gives Aunt Tilly an expression that is just as obnoxious as the fumes that drift out with his movement.

 

The child hurries in, unnoticed. "I'll try to hurry up, mister," comments the youngster. Turning to close the door, he sticks his head out. "This place stinks."  

 

Mccail turns towards him with a sneer, which instantly changes into road rage upon seeing the child's face.

 

"And those peanuts on the plane made me sick, mister."

 

"You? The kid on the plane?" Mccail's foot takes a stab at blocking the door’s closure, but is a second too late.

 

"Leave the child alone, sir."

 

"Listen, you little shit." Mccail bangs on the door. "You better hurry up! Tilly, this isn't fair! I was in there first. This just isn't fair!"

 

"You are acting like a child, sir. May I suggest that you go back to your room and...”

 

"You don't understand, Mrs Way. I may not make it back to the room."

 

"Sir, you’re a grown man." She looks him up and down. "And I'm sure you can hold yourself. For you to speak to a child in such tone is totally inexcusable."

Turning, Tilly addresses the youngster, who at this point is just easing his way into his crossword puzzle. "Jerome, dear. You take all the time you need."

 

"You know this kid?" Mccail demands.

 

"Yes." Her contorted lips deliver more, as her eyes flash a victory sign. "He's my grandson."

 

Mccail's eyes flash S.O.S.

 

The chances of Mccail retrieving back his porcelain easy chair in the near future fade just as fast as Mccail's Adam's apple drops. Tears almost come.

 

"You gotta be kidding me!"

 

Her raised eyebrows confirm her actions with authority.

 

He slinks down the hallway with lead feet.

 

By the time he makes it across the street, makes full use of the restaurant facilities and hurries back, Ann is asleep. Dashed are his plans for an adventurous evening. Aunt Tilly's gentle smile stews in his mind for hours on end as he sits regurgitating the evening’s events while trying to sleep.

 

 

Day 3 - July 14th

The night’s humidity sticks close while the open windows beg for a breeze. There is no avoiding its miserable entirety. Thick is the air. Sweat pours from every surface. Tired and weary souls, asking for relief, carry their thoughts of rest into the wee hours of the morn. A clock ticks somewhere in the dark, slowly dragging time with each tick.

 

A chorus of bedsprings provides the only movement of air on this night as the high and low notes of lovers also sing out a tune.

 

"They sound like crickets,” Mccail complains.“I gotta get some sleep, Ann. Shit, its 3 AM.  I hate this place and that bitch Aunt Tilly!" His sweltering rattling falls on the sleeping ears of Ann.

 

Climbing from beneath the sheet, he wanders to the open window and stands in the shadow, listening to the lovers as they  dance horizontally.

 

Reflections bouncing off a pane of glass into the next room allow him to observe covered movements in its darkened interior. He also keeps abreast of the room across the way. Squinting and lurking in the dark for a few titbits of skin, he lasts only until boredom and eye strain set in. With the beginnings of a headache taking place and frustrated that he can't join in, he gives up, heads back to bed, and wraps a pillow around his head to stifle the wails that come in stereo.

 

The last thing he remembers is hearing Aunt Tilly’s voice crying out, "Jack, oh Jack!"