The Waiting Room
~ Chapter One Hundred-Five
We Named the Donkey Jack
“I
don’t give a flying s--t if you do or don’t believe me,” Sands
snapped as they went back into the Room.
“Somebody…something…was
in there.”
The other men mumbled as they found their
respective seats.
Mort, who earlier had stormed out of the
kitchen, was already at his computer.
“Blockheads,” he
recalled calling them all so long ago. “Blockhead orchestra and I’m
the f--king conductor.” The words pounded in his head like he
pounded the keyboard.
“Not an ounce of sense between them. Pour
their brains into a measuring cup and one would be lucky to get an
ounce of intelligence.”
He became so involved in typing he
was oblivious to the hot breath at first. Finally a snort caught his
attention and he looked up, startled, shocked, frightened…wheeling
his chair back against the wall.
“Grosini! Get you ass out
of here!” he screamed as the donkey investigated Mort’s desk.
“I would if I knew how,” Toby shouted back. “Give me a
clue and I’m gone!”
“Not yours! This one!” Mort waved
at the creature nibbling his papers, losing interest and dropping
them to the floor as it searched for something to eat.
“Oh
s--t, sorry man. Why I was cursed with this thing, I can’t tell
you.” Toby jumped up from the floor and ran across the room,
grabbing up the reins.
“Come on, Jack,” he coaxed the
animal away.
“What? What did you call it?” the pirate
asked putting down his rum.
“Jack.” Toby answered. “I
called the ass Jack. I mean, get it…Jack...ass…”
Sparrow
gave a disgruntled huff and turned back to the bar. “I get it. I
get it.”
Why was everyone calling their animals Jack? The
question made him think of the monkey and how without it, he would
never leave The Room.
“Won’t you join us for some tea,
Captain?” Barrie offered the pirate. Jack glanced over to find the
Scotsman, the English lord and the Frenchman enjoying steaming cups
of tea.
“If I wanted to drink hot water I’d stick me head
in the kitchen sink,” Jack smirked.
“A simple ‘yes or
no’ would have sufficed, Captain,” James retorted.
“And a
simple, 'mind yer own business' will do for you, Scotty!” Jack
lashed out.
“Somebody get up on the wrong side of the
floor?” Sands asked from his place at the corner table.
Jack
made “spooky” gestures with his hands. “Somebody seeing little
people in the kitchen? Oh, sorry, 'seeing' was the wrong word.”
Sands bristled at the question and the barb.
“Well,
at least my departure from this Room will not depend on some damn
missing primate,” Sands sliced back.
The pirate crossed the
Room to Sands’ table. “That’s because you’re already an ape
yerself.”
Simultaneously Sands and Sparrow pulled their
weapons, leveling the pistols at one another.
Silence hung
like a bad curtain in the Room.
“Now,” Sands finally
broke the quiet. “This is what one calls a Mexican standoff. Will
the CIA Agent pull the trigger first, or the big, bad pirate? Will the
pirate chicken out and put away his little flintlock or will Agent
Sands decide he doesn’t want to waste a bullet on the mangy sea
dog?”
The seconds ticked away.
Finally Barrie
stepped closer to the armed men.
“Might I suggest that
gentleman, you call it a draw and put away your weapons?”
Sparrow
narrowed his eyes at Sands who seemed to tilt his head ever so
slightly towards the playwright. As if they communicated
telepathically both men swiveled their guns in Barrie’s direction.
“Might I suggest, Peter Pan boy, that you stay out of other
people’s business?” Sands warned James. “Take that fairy and
fly around the Room or something, but don’t be coming over here
trying to interfere in real men’s business. Capeesh?”
James
had paled a bit when the guns were thrown in his direction, but he
composed himself, straightened his jacket and stiffened his back.
“I was merely trying to bring some decorum back to The
Room,” he explained. “If you two wish to dispose of one another,
then I will happily withdraw.”
James turned his back to
them both and returned back to his table, greeted by Rochester and
the Frenchman with words of approval.
“Quite a show!”
Wilmot shouted with glee. “Could not have performed any better
myself!”
“Bon! Bon!” L’inconnu said, moving Barrie’s
chair about for the Scotsman.
Jack and Sands still stood,
their guns still pointing in the playwright’s direction.
Slowly
Jack peeked over at the agent.
“What do ye say, mate? Call
it a day?” he mumbled low.
“Yeah,” Sands said,
returning the gun’s hammer to its' original position. “Got that
out of my system. Just keep the 'seeing eye' jokes to yourself
from now on.”
“Agreed,” Jack said. “Bad call, sorry.
Got carried away.”
“Sure, sure. How about you do me a
favor and bring me over a bottle of tequila?”
Jack complied
and the rest of the day the two sat and downed several bottles of
tequila, rum, and whiskey until there was nothing left to do but
sleep.