Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader Presents Flush Fiction

by Bathroom Readers' Institute

  Margery was beaming as she left Harry’s. She’d been trying to get together with Sandra for six months. Now, she was in. But as she paid the cab driver and unlocked her apartment, she began to worry. Maybe the Warning thing was too much. She stopped in front of the hall mirror. “And what if they’d said yes?” she ranted, glaring at her reflection. Those concerns vanished after an hour of mindless television, and she fell into deep sleep.

  Friday morning, Margery awoke with the concert on her mind. What was I thinking? A knot tightened in her core. Groaning, she fought the urge to stay home. As the workday progressed without a service call from Sandra, Margery’s anxiety eased. At six in the evening, just as she pulled her low-cal lasagna from the microwave, her cell phone rang.

  “Surprise,” Sandra said, sounding a little drunk. “We’re here… at the Home and Hearth. What room are you in?”

  When Margery could breathe once again, she said, “What?”

  “We all decided to do it,” Sandra chuckled. “When will we get another chance to meet the Warning?”

  “Um.” Acid rose in Margery’s throat. “But…you said you couldn’t go. Or I would’ve—”

  “You would’ve what?” Sandra cut in. “Where are you?”

  “Jake and I had an argument,” Margery choked. “I’m sorry. I stayed home.”

  “Argh! What the—” Sandra hung up.

  Margery flopped onto the couch. “Why can’t I stop lying?” she sobbed. “Never again,” she promised.

  For the next hour, she hated herself. Then she decided Sandra didn’t deserve her friendship anyway. I need ice cream.

  Streetlights buzzed and flickered as Margery walked to the corner market. She plucked a half-gallon of Chocolate Death Threat from the freezer and went to the register. When she was second in line, everything stalled.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the cashier said to the man in front of her. “You’re three-o-one short.”

  He rummaged through his pockets. “Just forget it.”

  “No. Wait.” Margery handed the clerk a twenty. “I’ll get it this time.”

  The man turned to her. “What’d you do? Win the lottery or somethin’?”

  Margery smiled. “As a matter of fact…”

  The stranger’s eyes flashed and he followed her out into the night.

  Coffee with Anna

  Ginny Swart

  Keep quite still, lady, and you won’t be hurt.”

  The man’s voice was low and quite pleasant, and for a moment Kelly thought someone was playing the fool. Perhaps Anna had left the patio door open and one of her friends had come in without knocking.

  Then she saw the hard metallic glint of the gun in his hands and froze, almost spilling her coffee as her hand shook. She placed the mug quietly on the little table next to her, hoping he wouldn’t notice her movement.

  Kelly sank down into the easy chair, crunched herself into a trembling ball, and covered her face in her hands. The thought of an armed robber had always terrified her. Although she felt a guilty stab of shame at her cowardice, she hoped he’d just concentrate on Anna and ignore her, small and scared in the corner of the room.

  But Anna, besides being tall, blonde, and glamorous, was also a kung-fu expert and kept telling everyone that girls should learn to take care of themselves in a tight spot. Kelly hoped she could, now that the tight spot was in a corner of the living room with her.

  She peered through the cracks between her fingers and watched in admiration as Anna slowly looked up from the coffee she was drinking and snapped, “What do you want?”

  How does she stay so cool, wondered Kelly, whose own throat was as dry as a parrot’s cage, although the gun wasn’t pointing in her direction.

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know, Sweet Lips,” sneered the intruder. “Just hand over that diamond necklace.”

  Diamond necklace? As far as Kelly knew, Anna was strictly a handmade-silver-pendant kind of girl, and she’d never seen her wear expensive bling of any sort.

  “Forget it. Mike will be here any minute,” said Anna, imperceptibly edging closer. “He’ll deal with scum like you.”

  Mike? She really thought Mike Barnes would be any use?

  Mike was Anna’s latest and rather unimpressive boyfriend. He’d arrived on the scene some weeks before, wearing horn-rimmed spectacles and talking enthusiastically about computers. Not the usual action man Anna went for. But he was an old college friend apparently, and after he’d taken Anna out to dinner at a smart restaurant she’d come home smiling like someone in love. She’d been out with him several times since then.

  Kelly hadn’t liked the look of him, and she considered herself something of an expert when it came to judging a man’s character. There was something about Mike that put her off completely. Maybe it was his horrible hairstyle, parted in the middle and smoothed down with hair oil, or maybe it was his long earlobes. Long earlobes were a dead giveaway when it came to twisted personalities. And now Anna seemed to think this miserable excuse for a man would miraculously arrive and help her. How? Hit the intruder with a laptop?

  “Let’s see your face, scum!” Unafraid, Anna switched on the chandelier, immediately bathing the room in bright light. The man with the gun stepped back, muttering a curse.

  “Karl Matthews!” exclaimed Anna, shocked. “Is that you? My father’s oldest friend?”

  Kelly was stunned. Karl had been to the house on many occasions. He looked after Anna’s trust fund and appeared totally honest and upright, if a little dull. Now, behind a gun, he looked decidedly menacing.

  “Your father’s dead and gone, Anna, but before he died he told me about the wall safe behind that big picture. And he told me what was in it.”

  “You’re not touching the contents of that safe,” said Anna, defiant. “My mother’s jewels are irreplaceable.”

  A safe? Kelly hadn’t known about any safe.

  “Open it, Anna, just let him take what he wants,” whispered Kelly. “Your life’s more important than a few diamonds.”

  “Give me the key,” snarled Karl. “I’ll count to five.”

  “Or what?” said Anna, bending her knees slightly and positioning herself for what Kelly knew would be one of her powerful kung-fu kicks. She’s watched her practicing these around the house quite often, kicking over chairs and thumping her foot into the sofa.

  “Or he’ll kill you, girl!” wept Kelly. “Don’t be stupid, give him the key!”

  “One,” said Karl. “Two. Three…”

  Anna leapt across the room and delivered a smashing kick to Karl’s jaw, dropping him like a stone. At the same time, the door burst open and Mike stood there, armed with what looked like a missile launcher. He’d lost the horn-rimmed glasses, and his hair now had that spiky, unkempt look that invites women to run their fingers through it.

  “What kept you? Asked Anna casually. “Doesn’t the FBI teach you to be on time? You’re late for our dinner date.”

  “Thanks for doing the necessary, Anna. We’ve been after Karl Matthews for weeks. He’s wanted for money laundering and fraud.”

  Two men came in and carried the inert villain away. Mike turned to Anna, kissing her passionately. Kelly’s toes curled with pleasure as she watched, smiling. All this time he’d been an undercover agent? Maybe Mike wasn’t such a wimp after all.

  She listened until the familiar closing theme tune faded, then stood up and yawned. This was nearly the end of the season and if poor Anna Peterson, P.I. didn’t find happiness with Mike in next week’s episode, she’d have to wait until next year.

  Kelly picked up her coffee. It was cold, but there was plenty of time to make another cup before the start of American Idol.

  Fresh Ideas

  John P. McCann

  Bob Grebble is my section supervisor. He’s a bitter loser. Bob eats little cans of stew and reads gun magazines. Management squeezes Bob to increase production while they cut resources. How typical of this place. I figure management wants Bob fired so they ca
n hire a younger supervisor at a lower salary. (Actually, I know this for a fact. Only last week, I overheard Toad Woman discussing Bob’s severance with the comptroller.) Bob’s loss is my gain. I’m senior enough to inherit his job.

  “Hey Prime Time, get your fat ass typing.”

  “Certainly, Bob. I’ll just input the Lindquist report.”

  (Ha! I’m not inputting jack. I’m writing this.)

  “I want that report ASAP. Don’t make me write you up again.”

  “Yes, Bob. Certainly.”

  Go choke on a can of stew. And who says “ASAP” anymore? I’m tapping away, my keyboard making busy worklike sounds. I’m even humming as if content. Today I’m humming a medley of ‘80s songs: Cyndi Lauper, Yes, Run-DMC. Now I’ve settled on the Alan Parsons Project.

  Actually, I am content, doing what I do best.

  Thinking up fresh ideas.

  My name is Walter Gobi. I like terrariums and pipe-organ music. I once downloaded an album featuring the Go-Go’s’ greatest hits played entirely on a baseball stadium organ. The hair on the back of my neck just stood up thinking about “Beatnik Beach.”

  Anyway, Bob and the other office goblins here at Fairchild Industries call me “Prime Time.” Once in the break room I boasted my fresh ideas would rocket me to televised fame. They mocked me and flipped tangerines in my direction. Dumb, exploited losers.

  Because I’m 37 and live above a Studio City garage, tightly wound dolts like Bob Grebble think I’m a failure. Wrong! Without any lasting relationships, I’m free to be creative. I watch seven hours of TV a night and take extensive notes. And I don’t live alone. I have a gecko. I feed him crickets. Each cricket is called “Bob” or “Bobbie” or “Robert K. Grebble.” (I felt nervous typing that and looked up to find Bob. He’s arguing with Toad Woman, our department head.)

  I have lots of ideas, such as using apes to find equipment lost at the bottom of the sea. (Repeated dunkings build up their lung capacity.) But most of my ideas are for TV. Here’s a cop show I think will really catch on. Its called Epoch. Each week a crime is committed and the police must solve it within a geological epoch. In the foreground, the police could be knocking on doors and asking questions. But behind them we see the city decay and buildings disappear and a forest arise. Then the police turn around, but there’s an oak tree where their car used to be because an epoch is passing. I tried Fox, but they said they already had something like it in development.

  Breaking news! Here among the fluorescent lights, tiny cubicles and industrial gray carpet of Fairchild Industries, justice has arrived. Toad Woman fired Bob! Bob’s shouting wildly, making threats. Toad Woman called Security. Oh, what a plate of goodness, rich as a big Mexican meal with golden beans. I think I’ll hum some Eurythmics. A little “Sweet Dreams,” if you please. I’ll like being section supervisor.

  Here’s an idea for a reality show entitled, Yes, I Am a Dentist. Eight men and women in different cities, without any medical training, impersonate dentists. The one who gets away with it longest wins an electric car.

  Whoa! Bit of a scuffle! Bob Grebble got wrestled out the front door by that hick guard, Darrell Something. This is so sweet. Toad Woman is talking on her cell phone, notifying upper management, letting them know how professionally she handled things. What a kiss-ass!

  That’s what minor power does. So typical. They give the weak a little authority to toss away weaker ones. Only wisdom and compassion, such as mine, can overcome the allure of power. This is reflected in my idea to have combs and pocket-handkerchiefs on every corner that could be taken by people and later exchanged for cleaner ones.

  Toad Woman dropped her cell phone and sprinted past me. She runs well for a short, squat woman in platform heels. Darrell Something—Garmenting, that’s his name—Darrell Garmenting also bolted by my cubicle, his guard keys jingling like sleigh bells.

  Toad Woman and Darrell duck inside the break room and close the door.

  Meanwhile, Bob Grebble has reentered the building.

  His hand is inside a backpack.

  I stop humming.

  Bob’s bellowing about cold stew; cold stew for cold people. A metaphor? A quip?

  I am suddenly frightened. So frightened, I keep typing this, this, this, this……..

  I want to be Harry Potter and vanish to that town near Hogwarts where I’ll buy sweets for my friends.

  Bob and his backpack are here, smelling of WD-40 and gun oil.

  “Watcha typing, Prime Time? Better not lie.”

  “Nothing, Bob,” I whisper. “Just a few ideas.”

  “Keep it up, Gobi.”

  He walks away, pulling a large semiautomatic pistol from the backpack. I am so relieved I hum “Mr. Roboto” by Styx.

  Section supervisor? Couldn’t today’s events propel me even higher?

  I stand and catch Bob’s eye, pointing to the break room.

  Thousand one, thousand two, thousand three…

  Pop! Pop-pop-poppoppoppoppop!

  I believe the position of department head just opened.

  Of course, Toad Woman was a sloppy, inefficient manager. She should’ve fired Bob years ago.

  Luckily, I possess fresh ideas to tighten things up around here.

  I hum a little Tears for Fears: “Everybody Wants to Rule the World.”

  Mysterious Ways

  David Steffen

  The afterlife was arbitrary, Sam Fichtner decided. There was no Heaven or Hell, only one place. He’d had plenty of time to ponder since he crossed over. The Hereafter was filled with endless rows of clear domes like the one he occupied, a space of infinite size covered with a grid of cake platters. When people died, they were partitioned into one of these domes to spend the rest of eternity.

  The domes didn’t curve downward out of sight, but upward so that they filled the sky, like the interior of a giant sphere. And although the distance across the sphere was so immense that he should not have been able to see them clearly, he found that if he concentrated he could see the tiniest of details of the domes at any distance.

  God works in mysterious ways, so the expression says, and it is true, no matter what name you give Him. But Sam had never understood just how mysterious His ways really were. Sam had always assumed that nothing awaited after death except oblivion. Many believe the afterlife is bifurcated to reward earthly behavior, like toys promised to a child by parents pretending to believe in Santa Claus, and that made a sense of its own, but both views were dead wrong.

  Sam remembered dying in a car accident, so clearly there was an afterlife, but the segmentation of souls into their respective places apparently had nothing to do with morals, and there were millions, maybe billions, of partitions, not just two. Some of the domes appeared to have millions of souls in them, though they somehow never looked more crowded; some had just a few. Domes with just one individual were extremely rare. From his lonely dome, population one, Sam could see into the other domes full of people talking, laughing, fighting, loving. In his dome was a marble pedestal. Upon the pedestal, a sandwich. His favorite breakfast, his own strange invention. Peanut butter and honey, with garlic salt mixed in.

  He took the sandwich and nibbled it, not because he was hungry but because he had little else to do. It was sweet and salty and rich, as it always was. Another sandwich would then appear on the pedestal, taking the place of the first one.

  Time passed. With nothing to mark the seconds, it could have been days or months or centuries for all he knew.

  He had little else to do but watch the other domes. A dome next to his held a huge crowd constantly drinking, talking animatedly, fighting. Other domes were more subdued, but the people were always interacting, finding ways to entertain themselves with their meager belongings, armwrestling, playing cat’s cradle with their shoelaces. He ached for any kind of human contact. Even a fistfight sounded appealing, just to feel real again.

  Pounding on the glass did nothing but send the whole dome vibrating, and it made his teeth ache. O
ne of the drunks in the next dome saw him and pounded on his dome in return, laughing at the vibrations it caused and prompting his buddies to start a fistfight to get him to stop. Lucky bastard.

  He resigned himself to his lonely, dismal fate. Watching the other domes wasn’t so bad. It was better than network TV, at least. He could make up stories about the people he was watching and guess what their lives had been like. He watched and sang songs and watched, and paced and watched.

  One day, after unknowable eons had passed, he heard a voice behind him, soft and sweet. “Hello?”

  He spun to look, and there she was, brown hair, unfamiliar clothes, deep green eyes. “Hello.” Just the presence of another human being sent chills up and down his spine. He thrilled at the novelty of hearing sounds generated by a completely different person.

  “Where am I?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. The afterlife, I guess.”

  The silence stretched on as she looked around, looking at the domes beyond the glass. He struggled to think of something to say, his social skills having waned considerably. “Would you like a sandwich?” he asked lamely as he took a sandwich and handed it to her.

  She lifted a corner of the bread and peeked inside. “My favorite!” As it turned out, it was the last food that each of them had eaten before they died.

  Health Tips for Traveler

  David W. Goldman

  Since the short time from mutual greetings of worlds, many Earther wish to visit the lovely world of the Pooquar peoples. This explainer before so will bring yourselves a voyage most lovely.

  WITHIN THE TRANSIT

  The travel via cross-continuum portal will be novel to many Earther. Hydration is a paramount for not having the small problems of liver, marrow, blood tubes, and self memory. Also good before your trip is to make fat, especially under the skin. The scrawny traveler should begin preparation many week prior.

  Portal going is sudden and then done. But many Earther say after that they think the journey is very very very long and never to stop. Thus is Earther brains supposed bad attuned to one or more of the interim journey continuum. For thus, non-conscious makes for most lovely travel. Means of non-conscious both pharmacological and percussive are on offer by helpful Pooquar portal agents.