Guest Story IV

Yea! The conclusion of the story is here; I know you all have just been dying to know what happened to poor Eric. Well die no longer, here it is!


Eric stumbled off of his bench and began searching for the water closet, not knowing where to begin to look. He saw a group of women sitting around a coffee table smoking cigarettes. He approached the table and, in as sober and English a voice that he could manage asked, �Pradon me damsels, dost thou knowert wherest I might bind a fathroom?�

Eric was well aware that he was not functioning at a high level, and he knew that he had probably butchered the Queen�s English, and was prepared for the jeering and witty remarks these women would surely have for him. What he wasn�t prepared for was the look of pure and profound pity they gave him instead. They looked at him as if he had just crawled out of a cave in Iwo Jima.

�Ah cheers mate, it�s right down the way,� one of them said in her most saddened voice. �Do take care of yourself now, it can�t be all that bad. Cheers.�

Eric didn�t know whether to feel better or a whole lot worse about it. He opted for worse.

�Cheers mate,� he mimicked. �We beat your country twice. Not once, twice. You can�t even win a war without us having to come in and save you. And you�re telling me cheers.�

Eric mumbled on incoherently to himself for the next few minutes until he walked into a bench and almost fell over. He saw the restrooms up ahead, and by now he was concentrating on two things: walking and bladder control, both of which were giving out on him quickly. He concentrated on the door, and quickened his pace. Right before he reached the door he felt another jolt. He had run into a turnstile. This was no obstacle for him. He began to crawl over the turnstile when a security guard saw him.

�Sorry mate, it costs two quid to use the closet. Cheers.�

�Cheers indeed you lousy redcoat.� Just the thought of red made Eric sick to his stomach. �No wonder we left the mother country,� Eric was now mumbling again. �Tyranny isn�t dead in England; you can�t even piss without paying King George.�

Eric felt like the seal was about to break. The pressure in his mid-section was dominating his every thought. He quickly looked for a place to steal away and relieve himself. However, the place had become quite crowded as the morning traffic had arrived. Anywhere he went would have probably upset the pompous citizens, as he would have unavoidably left his mark on at least a few of them. He was drunk, but not that drunk. So he decided to appeal to the generosity of the masses, and see if he could cop a couple quid off of someone. He saw a friendly, portly looking woman, and decided to charm a couple pounds out of her - money, not weight.

�Cheers darling, cheers. You wouldn�t havven to hap a couple pounds so I can use the restroom? Cheers?�

Hoping for the pity he had evoked earlier, he was feeling good. Except for the drunkenness and wretched smell and lingering threat of internal combustion, that is. She was not as friendly as he had hoped.

�No I don�t, and you aren�t allowed to be in here,� she said resolutely.

�Why not? Because I�m American?� Eric was feeling confused. �I have a passport,� he helpfully added.

�You aren�t allowed in the train station because you are a beggar. You could be arrested and thrown in jail. If you want to beg, you have to go outside.�

And there Eric Fillmore, the Missouri farm boy, off to make his fortune and dreams come true, realized just where he had ended up: begging for money in a train station. He had always seen people down on their luck, and never cared one bit because everyone knew that if they weren�t able to pull themselves up from their bootstraps, they deserved it. And then she said it; the eight words that now excluded him from the rest of society.

�You�ll only use it to buy booze anyway.�

�Cheers,� Eric said dejectedly, admitting defeat. And he walked away.

Now not only did he feel about two steps away from death; he was late for his train. He had to find a restroom, or at least somebody to pay his way to get into the totalitarian nazi public restroom. Eric was in a good deal of trouble.

He looked at the digital clock next to the arrival/departure board and it read 7:28. He had run out of time. He was either going to board the train and fight all odds to make it to the next stop, or he was going to miss his train, find a restroom and hopefully catch his flight by some other means. One ran the risk of the total and complete humiliation, shunning, and possible incarceration that a grown man wetting himself in public would result in. The other meant he might have to stay in London a few more hours. Eric took his seat in the farthest row in the back of the train.

As he sat, he watched a redheaded woman walk down the aisle and take the seat next to him.

�Could you please move somewhere else?� Eric was not in the mood for dramatic irony.

�What�s the problem?� she said. �I�m not going to steal your wallet or anything. You can trust me.�

Eric laughed in her face as a small wet spot on his pants began to enlarge, run down his leg, and trickle onto the floor of the train.


The end