Inconvenience was another topic from the writer's meeting in the pub. I used it as the first of my stories to be loaded onto www.ReadWave.com and it got some interesting comments so I loaded up some of my other tales. My story 14 got subsequently listed as a 'Staff Pick' so that was nice.
Inconvenience
Inconvenience
It’s always the same at the bloody festival,
stupidly long queues, banks and banks of
portable toilets all occupied with people taking stupid long inside them. Mike stood shuffling in his chosen queue, rocking
from one foot to the other, fighting back the cramps and knowing he wasn’t
going to make it. He could see himself ripping down his jeans and squatting to
release right there in the line.
Just as he was considering taking that very action, the performance stage and speaker towers suddenly errupted into the intro to the Frantic Dukes' latest hit. The lines
of toilet people let out a group moan acknowledging they were stuck in these stagnant queues for the headline act.
Nothing sharpens the senses like pain and as Mike bent over to another
gut-stabbing cramp he noticed there was a gap in the fence. The chain wire formed a rough barrier
enclosing a yard where toilets from yesterday were locked and lined up
waiting to be hosed and pumped out .
Stacked tightly together the backs of the full loos formed a solid blue green wall to the
performance paddock and people stood and lent against them to get a clear view.
Through the gap in the fence Mike spotted a toilet on
the end of one line had its door ajar. Desperate times call for desperate decissions
and he abandoned his place in the queue, slid through the gap and stumbled across the yard to
dive into the open cubicle.
The bowl was soiled but the seat was clean enough, the floor though was awash in crud. He closed the door and the trapped air turrned instantly foul. With as much speed as his cramps demanded, Mike pushed down his pants and sat. This change of position triggered forces to blast an acidic stream from his bowel into the noisome bowl.
The foot pump thankfully had flush but regrettably the cramping urge increased rather than subsided and Mike realised he’d be locked in this stinking cabin for some time.
Too much bloody fruit. Up until about thirty minutes ago it was a fantastic idea to bring only fruit so it wouldn’t matter if it got wet, and he wouldn’t have to wait in mile-long queues to pay a fortune for something greasy, cold and stale. He was also pretty sure no one would steal fruit. With a sense of his own brilliance he’d jammed a backpack full of oranges, apples, figs, dates, sultanas and a yellow- green hand of supermarket bananas. In the outside pouches of the bag he'd tucked away as many boxes of Tropicana as he could carry without getting a hernia.
As he sat now miserably contemplating the error of his brilliance and managing the cramping as best he could. Over the blast of the music he heard angry yelling people being pushed and jostled to bump against the back of the toilets especially the end one which he was in.
The Frantic Dukes were punching out their latest release at an ear-tearing rate. Mike’s intestines matched the beat by wracking him with stabbing pains and releasing squirting burn and splatter. Deep cramp and gut compressions heralded every debilitating cycle. Mike grew exhausted but as the music increased its fervour he did notice the angry people had stopped thudding against the side of his toilet box.
The sounds from the stage pulsed through the plastic walls setting up a sickening vibration in the rank interior. Reflux rose into Mikes throat.
A juddering thump. Not in his gut but from the toilet box. The whole thing suddenly jolted and swung. He was being moved by some lift or hoist and Mike screamed out and pounded the walls to let them know he was inside. No use, the Frantic Dukes were in crescendo and no man on earth could out-scream their vocals. On cue another gruesome cramp shut Mike up and made him jamb his feet and arms against the walls to lock his arse onto the rank hole and release the inevitable spray of shit. Desperatly pumping the chemical flush he felt the box swaying in an arc then rock slightly backwards. Then a thump and slosh of waste beneath him as the cabin dropped hard on a metal surface. Another cramp overtook Mike’s attempt to rise and get out and he fell back onto the hole to release an explosive mist of burning air.
That’s it, it didn’t matter now, he had to get out of this box. Fumbling with the dispenser he realised there was no paper, he tore off his T-shirt and used that to roughly scrape the flush and crud from around his raw and stinging sphincter. Leaving his shirt in the bowl and dragging his jeans up he was reaching for the door latch at the instant when he felt the unmistakable thump and shudder of another toilet cabin colliding with his. His door release would not open. If he pushed out the bottom corner it might force the catch . Problem was he was weakened and when he tried to lever the door it was obvious the toilet that just landed was hard up against it. He was trapped, the Frantic Dukes increased their lunacy and his feeble shouts and thumping against the walls was never going to be noticed.
Through the vented roof panel he could see the sun was deciding to shine through the clouds, almost immediately the temperature inside his prison began to rise, the fetid smells concentrated in the humidity and Mike became nauseous to the point of feinting, he stumbled and sat on the edge of the seat trying to catch a breath. The thump of another cabin landing against his made him scream out and pound against the walls again but to no effect. The cheers and whistles of the crowd paying homage to the Dukes drowned out all. He slumped back against the bulkhead throwing his head back. Looking up he saw the roof was far less robust than the walls, there were panels joined by clasps and small fixtures around the vent panel. Mike gathered some strength and stood on the seat, pushing against the vent. It popped and Mike could force out the centre part at an angle. Cool fresh air fell on his face as the Dukes gave no reprieve by launching immediatly into their classic number one hit and the crowd vented another wall of cheers and whistles in anticipation of speaker-blowing chords. Mike punched the other edge of the vent and the whole section cracked and flipped up, he tore it off its last clips and the whole roof piece slid away, clouds and scraps of blue sky were framed in the square over Mike’s head and he tried to lift himself up. Not tall enough to get a grip.
He looked around and lodged his foot against the door release, other foot on the small ledge and with every effort he could muster his head rose from the cabin, he took a deep breath of vibrating air and felt some strength return. Lifting both arms he managed to support his weight by his elbows on the edges of the cabin and lifting himself further managed to get a knee then a foot out as well, but the attempt drained him and he sort of allowed himself to be jammed there for a moment while he gathered the strength for a final effort. Pushing up with his foot he leveraged himself out the top of the box just in time to see another cabin flying in over his head. Ducking in reflex to avoid it Mike overbalanced, slipped and crashed down the side of the box, slamming the edge of the truck bed and falling in a heap on the trammelled and muddied gravel of the service road. He lay bleeding, stinking of fruit shit, and redolent of chemical flush. The flying toilet swung ominously overhead as the hoist man locked his controls and rushed to Mike's aid.
The bowl was soiled but the seat was clean enough, the floor though was awash in crud. He closed the door and the trapped air turrned instantly foul. With as much speed as his cramps demanded, Mike pushed down his pants and sat. This change of position triggered forces to blast an acidic stream from his bowel into the noisome bowl.
The foot pump thankfully had flush but regrettably the cramping urge increased rather than subsided and Mike realised he’d be locked in this stinking cabin for some time.
Too much bloody fruit. Up until about thirty minutes ago it was a fantastic idea to bring only fruit so it wouldn’t matter if it got wet, and he wouldn’t have to wait in mile-long queues to pay a fortune for something greasy, cold and stale. He was also pretty sure no one would steal fruit. With a sense of his own brilliance he’d jammed a backpack full of oranges, apples, figs, dates, sultanas and a yellow- green hand of supermarket bananas. In the outside pouches of the bag he'd tucked away as many boxes of Tropicana as he could carry without getting a hernia.
As he sat now miserably contemplating the error of his brilliance and managing the cramping as best he could. Over the blast of the music he heard angry yelling people being pushed and jostled to bump against the back of the toilets especially the end one which he was in.
The Frantic Dukes were punching out their latest release at an ear-tearing rate. Mike’s intestines matched the beat by wracking him with stabbing pains and releasing squirting burn and splatter. Deep cramp and gut compressions heralded every debilitating cycle. Mike grew exhausted but as the music increased its fervour he did notice the angry people had stopped thudding against the side of his toilet box.
The sounds from the stage pulsed through the plastic walls setting up a sickening vibration in the rank interior. Reflux rose into Mikes throat.
A juddering thump. Not in his gut but from the toilet box. The whole thing suddenly jolted and swung. He was being moved by some lift or hoist and Mike screamed out and pounded the walls to let them know he was inside. No use, the Frantic Dukes were in crescendo and no man on earth could out-scream their vocals. On cue another gruesome cramp shut Mike up and made him jamb his feet and arms against the walls to lock his arse onto the rank hole and release the inevitable spray of shit. Desperatly pumping the chemical flush he felt the box swaying in an arc then rock slightly backwards. Then a thump and slosh of waste beneath him as the cabin dropped hard on a metal surface. Another cramp overtook Mike’s attempt to rise and get out and he fell back onto the hole to release an explosive mist of burning air.
That’s it, it didn’t matter now, he had to get out of this box. Fumbling with the dispenser he realised there was no paper, he tore off his T-shirt and used that to roughly scrape the flush and crud from around his raw and stinging sphincter. Leaving his shirt in the bowl and dragging his jeans up he was reaching for the door latch at the instant when he felt the unmistakable thump and shudder of another toilet cabin colliding with his. His door release would not open. If he pushed out the bottom corner it might force the catch . Problem was he was weakened and when he tried to lever the door it was obvious the toilet that just landed was hard up against it. He was trapped, the Frantic Dukes increased their lunacy and his feeble shouts and thumping against the walls was never going to be noticed.
Through the vented roof panel he could see the sun was deciding to shine through the clouds, almost immediately the temperature inside his prison began to rise, the fetid smells concentrated in the humidity and Mike became nauseous to the point of feinting, he stumbled and sat on the edge of the seat trying to catch a breath. The thump of another cabin landing against his made him scream out and pound against the walls again but to no effect. The cheers and whistles of the crowd paying homage to the Dukes drowned out all. He slumped back against the bulkhead throwing his head back. Looking up he saw the roof was far less robust than the walls, there were panels joined by clasps and small fixtures around the vent panel. Mike gathered some strength and stood on the seat, pushing against the vent. It popped and Mike could force out the centre part at an angle. Cool fresh air fell on his face as the Dukes gave no reprieve by launching immediatly into their classic number one hit and the crowd vented another wall of cheers and whistles in anticipation of speaker-blowing chords. Mike punched the other edge of the vent and the whole section cracked and flipped up, he tore it off its last clips and the whole roof piece slid away, clouds and scraps of blue sky were framed in the square over Mike’s head and he tried to lift himself up. Not tall enough to get a grip.
He looked around and lodged his foot against the door release, other foot on the small ledge and with every effort he could muster his head rose from the cabin, he took a deep breath of vibrating air and felt some strength return. Lifting both arms he managed to support his weight by his elbows on the edges of the cabin and lifting himself further managed to get a knee then a foot out as well, but the attempt drained him and he sort of allowed himself to be jammed there for a moment while he gathered the strength for a final effort. Pushing up with his foot he leveraged himself out the top of the box just in time to see another cabin flying in over his head. Ducking in reflex to avoid it Mike overbalanced, slipped and crashed down the side of the box, slamming the edge of the truck bed and falling in a heap on the trammelled and muddied gravel of the service road. He lay bleeding, stinking of fruit shit, and redolent of chemical flush. The flying toilet swung ominously overhead as the hoist man locked his controls and rushed to Mike's aid.
Mike went right off fruit after that and for years will talk of his afternoon in a convenience.
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