The Sky Pirates of Gur by Donald Broyles
I can state with unqualified certainty the day when I first heard the voice coming from the toilet. For some reason that date – November 16 – is one I simply cannot forget, one ingrained in my memory for all time. It hardly seems credible as I write these words; in fact, you may think me a dreamer, a mere fabricator of idle tales. Yet, I can attest to the veracity of these events described with an assuredness that I find astounding now that I reflect upon them.
At first, I thought my wife was calling from downstairs to tell me that breakfast was ready. If you must know, my wife is a wonderful cook and knows exactly how to prepare my favorite omelet. She knows the perfect amount of bacon, cheese, tomatoes, aji, and Fritos to add so that all the ingredients work together in concert to produce an appetizing breakfast, with the aji pepper adding a truly zestful flavor that gives a new definition to the word ‘hot’. It truly is one of the great benefits of being married – of having a loved one cook for you – as long as the process is reciprocated in kind. Unfortunately, I am not a very good cook, with most of my dishes ending up in the trash as culinary disasters, deposited there by my wife when I am not looking. Yes, I can say unreservedly that breakfast is one of the many highlights of my day, one that prepares me to face those maddening undergraduates who materialize like lost souls in the English Department every morning, the look on their faces like questing chipmunks in search of the golden nut of knowledge.
Since this was a Fall Saturday morning and rather warm for this time of year, I planned after eating breakfast to relax in the sunroom with a good book on Post-Modern cultural relativism (my own) and a gin and tonic, all the while cogitating upon the vicissitudes of life and its many wonders, along with the problems in my marriage to Margaret. The truth is we seldom engaged in sexual congress anymore, bickering over the most mundane subjects such as what bathroom soap to buy at the local supermarket, or if the orange I held was sweeter than the one she had chosen. Or if the miniskirt on that girl over in the candy aisle might be rather too tight for comfort...
Because the bathroom door was closed, the tinny voice coming from the toilet was barely audible. I thought at first that I might be hearing the distant droning sound of the television, but then realized that my wife might be calling me to breakfast.
“What did you say, Margaret?” I said as I continued to shave, hoping my voice would carry downstairs even though the door was closed. I faced the mirror above the sink. If I were a fiction writer, I thought, this would be an ideal time to go into great detail about my round belly, mismatched eyes and bald pate. My humped shoulders, in addition to the square glasses I wore, gave me (I was led to understand) a predatory appearance similar to what a serial killer might look like. But since my writing involves literary research on the postmodern aspects of 20th Century Literature, I felt no desire to go into a personal description concerning my physiognomy.
“We’re trapped,” I heard a voice say, shocking me out of my reverie.
I put down my razor and opened the bathroom door: “I can’t really make out what you’re saying, dear,” I said. “What do you mean we’re trapped?” I adjusted my glasses, which had slid down my nose.
“What?” my wife said, her voice originating from the area below the stairs which angles into the kitchen and then disappears from view. The aroma of bacon was like an aphrodisiac that sent my senses reeling toward orgasmic ecstasy. Since she gave no further response, I shrugged my shoulders and resumed shaving.
“Please. You must listen carefully,” the voice continued, coming from my right, yet the sound was barely heard, like an ominous storm in the distance that one senses rather than hears. A moment later, the sound resolved itself into clearly articulated words:
“There isn’t much time, Professor Linwood. You must not use the toilet today, lest you destroy us. It is imperative that you follow our instructions. Please, Professor Linwood. The future of our race rests in your hands, so to speak.”
Let me take this opportunity to expound upon the toilet, before I proceed any further with my narrative: I would say that most of us take the toilet for granted. It is there when we need it, and not there when we don’t need it. In fact, it is like an invisible presence that no one pays any attention to – until those desperate times when its use is quickly demanded, whether we are in a grocery store shopping for doggie biscuits or in a department store looking for a bargain-priced piece of jewelry for a loved one. The ‘call of the toilet’ is a call that cannot be ignored. Its voice is more imperative than the voice of one’s wife. It is not that we give more credence to our toilet; rather, it is hoped that the love for one’s spouse will naturally take precedence over the love for one’s toilet. However, speaking personally, there have been times when I felt a great affection for my toilet – especially after a late night of imbibing too much alcohol, with arms wrapped lovingly around the toilet’s base, head hanging forlornly over the bowl, knees shaky with weakness as I throw up scotch, sausage rolls, and cheese dip. Such is life at the many faculty parties we are encouraged to attend. At times like these, one’s toilet assumes an importance of mythical proportions. We are thankful it is there, awaiting our use.
As I bent down toward the toilet, I could not help but notice how clean it was. I must add that our toilet is typical of the models found in the United States, with a bowl that contains water, in addition to a hinged seat and lid which I always keep up, much to the consternation of my wife. The tank, of course, contains the normal flapper, overflow tube, chain, float ball, and handle and trip lever, along with the flush valve sheet.
As mentioned, both lid and seat were up as I stuck my nose further into the toilet bowl in order to see if anyone might be hiding in the water. On analyzing my previous sentence, I realize that it sounds absurd to think that someone might actually be lurking in the toilet. Yet, that is exactly what I was attempting to ascertain: to see if anyone might be hiding in one of the crevices of the toilet when it is flushed. I was certain the voice had originated in the bowl (as opposed to the tank), and to think that it might have come from anywhere else was to invite insanity into one’s life. After all, the bathtub itself was empty. This was easy enough to check, because the shower curtain was pulled back all the way, which revealed a window at the end of the tub that overlooks the Friedkin’s residence, where the old geezer was most often seen holding onto the lawnmower with one hand, while simultaneously scratching his butt with the other hand. So, as I say, it was a logical conclusion that the voice had originated from the toilet bowl and from nowhere else.
As I was on the floor, I suddenly realized that I had a pressing need and, without thinking, I raised my head out of the toilet and unzipped my pants.
“NO!” The voice cried out suddenly. “Stop, Professor Linwood! Stop!” The voice was plaintive, imploring, and quite agitated.
“But I have to go,” I said, speaking to the toilet like a spoiled child not allowed to have his way.
Further action was momentarily deferred as I heard my wife’s voice: “Breakfast!”
“Be right down,” I shouted. I danced a little jig as I zipped up my pants, my need increasing with each moment of delay. “Look,” I said conspiratorially, almost whispering. “You don’t understand. I need to go. Now.”
“But not here, Professor Linwood. You would most assuredly drown us.” The voice was now deeper, fuller. I realized, with a suddenness that startled me, that this voice was obviously male and that the first voice had been female. That meant that there were at least two miniature people somewhere in the toilet, perhaps floating on a raft somewhere within one of the pipes or hidden behind a drainage hole as water cascaded around them, ready to capsize them into the water’s swirling maelstrom. How they were able to communicate with me, and how they knew my name was a mystery that would have to wait for another time.
On the surface, the unseen person’s statement sounded absurd to my ears. If I were to recount this story to my colleagues in the English Dep
artment, I would be laughed out of the building, perhaps sent out to pasture or committed to an asylum. Or even worse, I would be forced to teach ‘Composition I’. My beloved office with its two soot-grimed windows overlooking the Commons would probably be given to Professor Jason N. Gridley, he of the widow’s peak and razor-sharp goatee, whom I disliked with a passion. The feeling was quite mutual, I must add. He had often expressed an interest in my office, most likely to ogle from a safe distance the female undergraduates who lolled on the grass as they soaked in the warmth of a summer’s day, their laughter bright and infectious, skirts short and brazen, legs tan and athletic...Yes, the man was a notorious womanizer.
I realized that I must get to the bottom of this mystery before events spiraled out of control, even if it meant telling Margaret. She, at least, might understand.
I remembered reading, as an adolescent, the marvelous works of Edgar Rice Burroughs. In my fevered imagination, I thought that John Carter and Tars Tarkus were real, that nothing could displace them as my trusted friends. As I reached adolescence, however, an interest in mammary glands took precedence over the daring exploits of John Carter and his friends on Mars. At that age, a breast held lightly in one’s hand had much greater sexual coinage than the wielding of a broadsword or saber.
By this time, I was fairly jumping up and down with my need for release.
“I need to leave now,” I explained.
“We understand. We’ll talk later, Professor Linwood. Know, however, that the fate of our land depends upon your swift action. We have journeyed far, travelling a great distance in order to reach you so that you might assist us.”
“How far?”
“From across the street, but for us it has been a journey of many months and with many hardships.”
I gave a thumbs up toward the toilet and left.
At first, I thought my wife was calling from downstairs to tell me that breakfast was ready. If you must know, my wife is a wonderful cook and knows exactly how to prepare my favorite omelet. She knows the perfect amount of bacon, cheese, tomatoes, aji, and Fritos to add so that all the ingredients work together in concert to produce an appetizing breakfast, with the aji pepper adding a truly zestful flavor that gives a new definition to the word ‘hot’. It truly is one of the great benefits of being married – of having a loved one cook for you – as long as the process is reciprocated in kind. Unfortunately, I am not a very good cook, with most of my dishes ending up in the trash as culinary disasters, deposited there by my wife when I am not looking. Yes, I can say unreservedly that breakfast is one of the many highlights of my day, one that prepares me to face those maddening undergraduates who materialize like lost souls in the English Department every morning, the look on their faces like questing chipmunks in search of the golden nut of knowledge.
Since this was a Fall Saturday morning and rather warm for this time of year, I planned after eating breakfast to relax in the sunroom with a good book on Post-Modern cultural relativism (my own) and a gin and tonic, all the while cogitating upon the vicissitudes of life and its many wonders, along with the problems in my marriage to Margaret. The truth is we seldom engaged in sexual congress anymore, bickering over the most mundane subjects such as what bathroom soap to buy at the local supermarket, or if the orange I held was sweeter than the one she had chosen. Or if the miniskirt on that girl over in the candy aisle might be rather too tight for comfort...
Because the bathroom door was closed, the tinny voice coming from the toilet was barely audible. I thought at first that I might be hearing the distant droning sound of the television, but then realized that my wife might be calling me to breakfast.
“What did you say, Margaret?” I said as I continued to shave, hoping my voice would carry downstairs even though the door was closed. I faced the mirror above the sink. If I were a fiction writer, I thought, this would be an ideal time to go into great detail about my round belly, mismatched eyes and bald pate. My humped shoulders, in addition to the square glasses I wore, gave me (I was led to understand) a predatory appearance similar to what a serial killer might look like. But since my writing involves literary research on the postmodern aspects of 20th Century Literature, I felt no desire to go into a personal description concerning my physiognomy.
“We’re trapped,” I heard a voice say, shocking me out of my reverie.
I put down my razor and opened the bathroom door: “I can’t really make out what you’re saying, dear,” I said. “What do you mean we’re trapped?” I adjusted my glasses, which had slid down my nose.
“What?” my wife said, her voice originating from the area below the stairs which angles into the kitchen and then disappears from view. The aroma of bacon was like an aphrodisiac that sent my senses reeling toward orgasmic ecstasy. Since she gave no further response, I shrugged my shoulders and resumed shaving.
“Please. You must listen carefully,” the voice continued, coming from my right, yet the sound was barely heard, like an ominous storm in the distance that one senses rather than hears. A moment later, the sound resolved itself into clearly articulated words:
“There isn’t much time, Professor Linwood. You must not use the toilet today, lest you destroy us. It is imperative that you follow our instructions. Please, Professor Linwood. The future of our race rests in your hands, so to speak.”
Let me take this opportunity to expound upon the toilet, before I proceed any further with my narrative: I would say that most of us take the toilet for granted. It is there when we need it, and not there when we don’t need it. In fact, it is like an invisible presence that no one pays any attention to – until those desperate times when its use is quickly demanded, whether we are in a grocery store shopping for doggie biscuits or in a department store looking for a bargain-priced piece of jewelry for a loved one. The ‘call of the toilet’ is a call that cannot be ignored. Its voice is more imperative than the voice of one’s wife. It is not that we give more credence to our toilet; rather, it is hoped that the love for one’s spouse will naturally take precedence over the love for one’s toilet. However, speaking personally, there have been times when I felt a great affection for my toilet – especially after a late night of imbibing too much alcohol, with arms wrapped lovingly around the toilet’s base, head hanging forlornly over the bowl, knees shaky with weakness as I throw up scotch, sausage rolls, and cheese dip. Such is life at the many faculty parties we are encouraged to attend. At times like these, one’s toilet assumes an importance of mythical proportions. We are thankful it is there, awaiting our use.
As I bent down toward the toilet, I could not help but notice how clean it was. I must add that our toilet is typical of the models found in the United States, with a bowl that contains water, in addition to a hinged seat and lid which I always keep up, much to the consternation of my wife. The tank, of course, contains the normal flapper, overflow tube, chain, float ball, and handle and trip lever, along with the flush valve sheet.
As mentioned, both lid and seat were up as I stuck my nose further into the toilet bowl in order to see if anyone might be hiding in the water. On analyzing my previous sentence, I realize that it sounds absurd to think that someone might actually be lurking in the toilet. Yet, that is exactly what I was attempting to ascertain: to see if anyone might be hiding in one of the crevices of the toilet when it is flushed. I was certain the voice had originated in the bowl (as opposed to the tank), and to think that it might have come from anywhere else was to invite insanity into one’s life. After all, the bathtub itself was empty. This was easy enough to check, because the shower curtain was pulled back all the way, which revealed a window at the end of the tub that overlooks the Friedkin’s residence, where the old geezer was most often seen holding onto the lawnmower with one hand, while simultaneously scratching his butt with the other hand. So, as I say, it was a logical conclusion that the voice had originated from the toilet bowl and from nowhere else.
As I was on the floor, I suddenly realized that I had a pressing need and, without thinking, I raised my head out of the toilet and unzipped my pants.
“NO!” The voice cried out suddenly. “Stop, Professor Linwood! Stop!” The voice was plaintive, imploring, and quite agitated.
“But I have to go,” I said, speaking to the toilet like a spoiled child not allowed to have his way.
Further action was momentarily deferred as I heard my wife’s voice: “Breakfast!”
“Be right down,” I shouted. I danced a little jig as I zipped up my pants, my need increasing with each moment of delay. “Look,” I said conspiratorially, almost whispering. “You don’t understand. I need to go. Now.”
“But not here, Professor Linwood. You would most assuredly drown us.” The voice was now deeper, fuller. I realized, with a suddenness that startled me, that this voice was obviously male and that the first voice had been female. That meant that there were at least two miniature people somewhere in the toilet, perhaps floating on a raft somewhere within one of the pipes or hidden behind a drainage hole as water cascaded around them, ready to capsize them into the water’s swirling maelstrom. How they were able to communicate with me, and how they knew my name was a mystery that would have to wait for another time.
On the surface, the unseen person’s statement sounded absurd to my ears. If I were to recount this story to my colleagues in the English Dep
I realized that I must get to the bottom of this mystery before events spiraled out of control, even if it meant telling Margaret. She, at least, might understand.
I remembered reading, as an adolescent, the marvelous works of Edgar Rice Burroughs. In my fevered imagination, I thought that John Carter and Tars Tarkus were real, that nothing could displace them as my trusted friends. As I reached adolescence, however, an interest in mammary glands took precedence over the daring exploits of John Carter and his friends on Mars. At that age, a breast held lightly in one’s hand had much greater sexual coinage than the wielding of a broadsword or saber.
By this time, I was fairly jumping up and down with my need for release.
“I need to leave now,” I explained.
“We understand. We’ll talk later, Professor Linwood. Know, however, that the fate of our land depends upon your swift action. We have journeyed far, travelling a great distance in order to reach you so that you might assist us.”
“How far?”
“From across the street, but for us it has been a journey of many months and with many hardships.”
I gave a thumbs up toward the toilet and left.