Happy Sunday. This week I’d like to share the first short story of the year. If you’re new to this space, you should know that once in every while, instead of a regular essay on art and creativity, I post one of my short stories on this blog and invite you to share your thoughts. The last one I shared was Not Long For This World, and today’s short story is called Euston to Piccadilly. As always, I’d love to hear what you think of it. Let me know if you’d like more of these in the future.
— Euston to Piccadilly —
The moment the first sip of his large almond cappuccino coated his tongue, Fred knew he’d made a big mistake. It was a delicious mistake, so delicious, that mere moments earlier, while sitting in the dimly lit branch of a well-known, multinational coffee shop in the general vicinity of London Euston station, he’d decided that he’d not had enough of the aromatic drink in front of him. He walked to the till and ordered the same to go, large this time, to maximise utility and value for money.
Fred had spent the previous day exploring the English capital, and while there was an abundance of quirky, loveable, if a bit overpriced coffee shops, all the cappuccinos he’d ordered had somehow fallen short of what he was accustomed to. He woke up the next morning – the day of his return train to Manchester – longing for familiarity and certainty, hence the choice to get his morning java from a big chain. The taste of the ground beans, the texture of the almond milk, and the presentation of the order were all to his expectations. The only problem was, they must have changed their cup sizes since he’d last been, because the “almond cappuccino, small” he’d asked for was smaller than expected when the barista placed it on the side of the till. And so, having decided that he’d not had enough of the warm beverage that was simultaneously pedestrian and delicious, and having come to the realisation that he wanted more, no, needed more, he ordered another to go, telling himself he’d drink it once he’d boarded his train in 15 or so minutes.
Drinking a cappuccino before a long train ride was always risky – he knew – let alone two in the space of half an hour. But the first cappuccino was nice enough to make him go back for more, and as he walked to the till, he knew he was about to sabotage his future self, because by ingesting that much coffee, he was putting in motion a series of events that would undoubtedly culminate with him spending some quality time on the toilet.
At 10:30 am, things started going off the rails. Not literally, thankfully – this was the last thing he or anyone would want to happen while waiting to board a train. Standing on the open floor of the station, surrounded by other worn and weary travellers, Fred realised – first by way of the updates on the big screens, immediately followed by the voice of the station announcer – that his train, originally scheduled for 10:45, had been delayed. How long it was delayed for, the screen didn’t say, nor did the announcer. Fred now knew two things for sure. One, was that he had longer than his expected 15 minutes until he could board the train. Two, it was only a matter of time until he had a date with the toilet. What he didn’t know was exactly when, which was a problem.
Ever the optimist, he held out hope – despite the recent announcement – that his train would arrive on time, he’d get on board, and make it all the way to Manchester before having to use the facilities at Piccadilly station. But then he heard a sound he knew well, a sound he’d heard many times before. It was the unmistakable grumblings of an overactive digestive system, which meant one thing – he had to go, sooner than later. This shattered any illusions he had of delaying nature’s call for over two hours until his destination.
Fred checked the clock. The time was now 10:50. The train was officially delayed by 5 minutes and counting, but there was still no update on how delayed it was, and what platform it would take off from. He needed a new game plan and a new focal point for his optimism. He found one by way of a new idea. Instead of hoping the train delay was minimal, such that he’d soon be on board and on his way home, what if the train delay was significant, so that he had time to use the facilities at Euston before boarding?
He didn’t have long to fantasise about doing his business in a toilet attached to land-based plumbing instead of a makeshift sewage system on a locomotive travelling at over 100 miles per hour. If his fantasy was a party balloon filling with helium by the second, the voice of the station announcer blaring out of the overhead PA system was a needle violently piercing through the membrane.
“Attention all passengers! Please be advised that the delayed 10:45 West Midlands Railway service to Manchester Piccadilly will now depart from Platform 6 at 11:05.”
Fred did the maths. He had 15 minutes. The question was, could he make his way to the train station’s toilets, empty his guts – fireworks style – and make his way to Platform 6, all in 15 minutes? Or should he bite the bullet and opt for the next train – the 11:45 service – thus buying himself more time to do his business?
Fred chose the former. It took all of 15 minutes on the moving train to realise he shouldn’t have. Having tried reading, deep breathing and muttering prime numbers under his breath as the train pulled out of the station and began its journey to the north, by 11:20 he’d accepted that his attempts to distract himself from the fact that he desperately needed to go were futile, and he now had no choice but to do that which he so desperately dreaded – a number two on a moving train. It was either that, or shit himself in the cramped carriage, and stew in said shit for 2 hours.
He found the bathroom alright. The good news was that it wasn’t filthy. Well, it was, but it wasn’t filthy filthy, seeing as the previous occupant appeared to have done the barest minimum in flushing the contents of the bowl, leaving Fred a few blobs of urine to wipe off the seat and the floor. The bad news was that what amounted to a small crowd had congregated just outside the toilet door, because, well, the train was packed. He’d had to shimmy past them on his way in, and they would no doubt be privy to the ongoings of the privy, they would hear and smell the output of his business, and they would see him leave and walk away after doing said business. But Fred couldn’t afford to think about that then. It was simply a question of how badly he needed to go. Should he refrain from using a train toilet while passengers heard the fireworks and smelt the stench, or should he poop himself and sit in his own filth for two hours? It was a no-brainer.
Fred pulled down his pants, hovered over the now-wiped seat, and expelled excrement from his anus into the toilet bowl stuffed with tissue paper, all the while holding the base of his jumper over his nose with one hand and holding his breath. The whole operation was quite efficient, even Fred was impressed with himself. Still hovering, with his free hand, he reached for more tissue paper to wipe, and just as he did the deed, he heard the mechanical sound of something coming undone, and turned to the door to see the latch move counter-clockwise. It must not have locked properly, or at all. He froze.
His life flashed before his eyes as he imagined a bunch of irate travellers gazing upon his image, the image of a man squatting over a stainless steel toilet bowl with what looked like the poop emoji recreated with organic matter, one hand propping up fabric over his nose, the other holding three sheets of tissue paper with a dark brown smear down the centre.
“Oh god,” exclaimed one of the voices in the sea of faces staring at him. “Sorry! I’m so sorry!”
The door slammed shut, but the same voice carried through the door. “Didn’t realise it was occupied, so sorry.”
The worst had happened. The rest of Fred’s time in the train toilet passed in a haze, followed by short-term amnesia so that he couldn’t even recall the events that had transpired. He regained use of his faculties after he heard the sound of the flush. He must have done the rest of his business on auto-pilot. There was only one task left. He had to make the arduous journey back to his seat, starting with the first step out of the toilet to a world of on-lookers who had undoubtedly seen his dangling gonads, to those further afield who probably hadn’t seen anything but had likely smelled what anyone could have mistaken for the rotting carcass of a medium-sized animal, knowing with each step he would have to say “sorry,” “excuse me,” “just coming through,” as he squeezed past them.
As he endured the walk of shame back to his seat, Fred made a promise to himself to never again make such bad decisions as knocking back two cappuccinos in quick succession. And he kept that promise, until the next day.
P.S.: My debut non-fiction book, Art Is The Way, and my middle-grade novella, A Hollade Christmas, are out everywhere now. You can get them in all good bookstores and from all major online vendors.