The Waiting Room
~ Chapter Ninety-Nine
The Lost Man
The
rapping woke him.
But he was so deep in his cups that Jack
was unable to open his eyes immediately. His mouth was dry and he
felt as if all he had eaten the past week would soon find its way
out.
He lay there trying to focus his thoughts. He could tell
he lay on the floor. He remembered hoisting drinks with Jung,
toasting to the day and belly aching that there would be no tomorrow
for the both of them.
Jack’s fingers brushed the floor
beneath him.
Wood. He felt wood. It was his day. It had been
his day!
His day to go… to leave that God forsaken Room.
And now he smelled rum and felt wood.
The Pearl! He was
aboard The Pearl again!
His eyes flew open but found that
they were yet able to focus. He pulled himself up, wanting to see his
ship again. How long had it been? How would his crew react to see
their captain again?
“Hearties! I have returned!” He
shouted out as he came to his feet.
But as he gained his
eyesight, as the things and bodies around him became recognizable, he
realized he was not aboard his precious Pearl.
He was still
in the Room.
“Wha’the bloody ‘ell?” He shouted so
loud he gave himself a headache. Both hands framed his head as he
tried to stop the pounding. He looked to his left, then to his right.
The pounding continued.
“”Will someone get the
f--king door?” Rainey shouted as he kept typing on his keyboard.
“I am not a common doorman,” Rochester shouted back at
the writer, bringing his cane down hard to emphasize his words.
“Quelqu’un est a la porte,” The Frenchman said.
“Yes,
yes we know that someone is at the door, “ Wilmot replied. “But
no one seems to feel fit to answer it,” he explained then realized
his friend did not understand a word and translated back into French.
The rapping became a beating fist.
“Will someone
answer the bloody door?” Jack shouted from behind the bar. He had
dropped to the floor, mortified that he was still in the Room…and
yet there was no sign of Abberline or Jung.
“Oh, allow me,
if I may?” James said as he exited the bathroom and heard that
someone was at the door.
Quickly he made his way to the large
wood portal, straightening his jacket, brushing his pants, making
sure he would be presentable for their guest.
But before
James could offer a welcome to whom he thought was Noodlemantra,
obscenities began to stream from the other side of the door.
“Will
you a--holes let me the f--k in? It’s freaking freezing out here
and I’m frigging wet to the bone!”
Barrie stepped back in
shock. It was obvious that the visitor was not Oprah Noodlemantra.
James glanced at the remaining men, wondering if he should
allow the angry soul into the Room.
Wilmot had a sour look on
his face, tapping his cane nervously. The Frenchman shrugged,
offering no suggestions.
“Sounds like someone in need of
learning some manners, if you ask me, but no one did.” The southern
voice drifted across the room as Shooter explained what he thought of
the situation as he adjusted his hat and hefted the shovel across his
shoulder.
Shooter/Rainey stepped around the desk, indicating
he was heading for the door.
“No, no, please Mr. Rainey…I
mean Mr. Shooter,” James held up a hand. “I assure you that
whoever is on the other side will simply go away if we don’t
answer.”
The door vibrated against another assault.
“Let
me the f--k in!” The demand came again.
“Bloody ‘ell”
came Jack’s plea from behind the bar. “How long does it take to
answer the door?”
The sound of a gun’s chamber being
readied caught their attention and the men turned to see Sands, a
pistol aimed in their direction.
“Here’s the deal, see?”
Sands began to explain. “The next time that freaking idiot knocks
on the door and no one answers by the third beat…I’m balancing
the Room…and I will keep balancing until it’s just me and whoever
it is left. Kapeech?
|
“So stop screwing the pooch and get one of
your skinny a--es over there.”
Pound!
Pound!
“Come in!” Barrie answered quickly, his eyes darting from
the armed Sands to the Room’s door.
Before Sands could put
his safety back on the door swung open and a rain-soaked man in a
poncho came into the Room. Behind him he pulled on a mule that was
fighting him all the way.
“Jesus H.!” He cried as he
dragged the animal in, and then kicked the door shut. “I hope it
takes less of you to change a freaking light bulb in this place.”
He stood there, water falling like tiny rivers off him. His
long dark hair, highlighted with a streak of blonde, clung to his
face. The heavy poncho was waterlogged and looked as if it weighed
twice its weight.
“I’m Sancho Panza, and I’ve been lost
for a hell of a long time.”