Stranded in a country pub in the middle of the Australian outback, surrounded by flood waters unprecedented in living memory, ten travellers wonder how they will survive the next ten days. No phone reception, no electricity, at least the pub has beer! After listening to a rambling anecdote from the publican, so tedious and boring, the travellers make a marvellous discovery. By an amazing coincidence, they are all writers, in search of background for their next book. Politely, after all he is in control of the beer, they nudge the publican to one side. What follows, are ten of the most amazing tales you will ever hear...
What's your Wifi Password?
By Leigh W Stuart
Synchronicity is the coming together of inner and outer events in a way that cannot be explained by cause and effect and that is meaningful to the observer. Carl Jung on coincidences
***
"What'll be? Piss warm beer or piss warm rain water?"
I clamber up the barstool, unsticking my hand from something suspiciously gross on the underside of my seat and lean on the bar. I am like a five year-old at the adult table for Thanksgiving. My epic shortness rests uncomfortably on me here, in the midway point of my around-the-world-in-sixty-days tour, unlike during my previous stops in Southeast Asia where the bars were more accommodating to my stature. Not to mention the beach-side views were nicer and the monsoons didn't trap us inside with no electricity.
"How about a piss warm whiskey?" I say and grin.
"Hark!" The bartender hawks a massive loogy from the sound of things and spits in a spittoon behind the bar. Then he grins back at me. "You got some I.D., sweetheart?"
"C'mon, we've been stuck in here since yesterday. I showed you my I.D."
"Right. But I can't believe anyone as short and baby-faced as you, even a Sheila, could be over eighteen."
I tap the wooden counter. He plunks down my drink and winks at me. I give him my last couple of Australian dollars. We'll all be running a tab soon, and stinking up the place. Habit almost has me checking my phone again, but the battery died that morning and no one would be sending me messages anyway.
The rain falling on the roof above us isn't so much drumming or rumbling as it is constantlybuzzing. A plague of insects are droning above us. It deafens the ears and grates on all of our nerves.
"So what's your story, love?"
"My story?" I know he isn't asking me what I am doing there. We've already gotten those pleasantries out of the way. The others, every single one of us a traveling writer, at the bar and nearby tables tilt their heads to listen. We are all itching for entertainment. Our input starved brains are turning in mad circles, like dogs chasing our own tails, and we need each other to talk so we can chase their tales.
"My story is actually true. Well, partly. I won't tell you which parts though." I throw back my whiskey and shudder. "I'll take some of that rain water, too, please." I take a deep breath. And begin.
My story is about the boy next door when I lived in a house last year with seven other college undergraduates. Was it a lucky coincidence that our next door neighbor was cute? So cute we collectively drooled over him while watching reruns of Sex and the City?
Some of us girls were single, some of us weren't, and at least one of us didn't even like boys, but we all had something for our next door neighbor from the moment he showed up on our doorstep dripping wet, a hard drive in one hand and an oversized hand-towel that barely covered his bits and pieces clamped at his waist by the other.
It was the end of August, a late Sunday night right before classes started. We were all at home, chilling out in the living room on ratty sofas and chairs, when the doorbell rang. Most of us jumped to answer or see who it was.
Being short and slow and the current owner of the popcorn bowl, I was behind my roommates.
"Can we help you?" Liza asked whoever was at the door.
"Can you hold this?" a warm tenor voice asked.
"Sure."
"And this?"
"Whoa, wait a minute!" Liza shouted.
I forced my way to the front line just in time to see a slim, well-defined and very bare ass dashing off to the house next door.
"I've got some yoga pants—" Cheri called.
"Not something you see every day, unfortunately," I said.
Liza shrugged. "What is this thing?" She had the towel and the hard drive in her hand. Without speaking another word, we spilled en masse out onto our small porch, except for the three who hadn't come to the door. They had their faced pressed to the bay window.
It had been raining all day and was still misting a fine sprinkle, but that didn't explain our neighbor's wet state. We watched with what can only be described as admiration as he jumped up to catch a low hanging tree branch, wriggled with a gymnast's skill onto the roof and tiptoed to a window at the second floor. His hair was plastered to his head in thick waves, his square jaw cut through the air, and his smooth skin glinted in the near darkness of night.
He knelt on the steep incline at the sill and pressed on the window to lift it.
It must have been stuck, because his muscles bulged in his arms and sculpted thighs (I should point out that our little college town kept the street lamps in perfect working order, without which, we wouldn't have had much of a show), but the window didn't move.
"What are the chances that if he falls, he'll need mouth to mouth?" Sadie asked with a sigh.
"Slim to none. But he might break a leg, in which case he can stay in my bed while we take care of him."Brianna's comment set off a storm of giggles and plans for bathing schedules and spankings.
As the short, not-nearly-as-pretty girl as her roommates, I didn't join in the conversation. I propped my chin in my hand and leaned on the porch rail as he pitted his strength against the house's.
In the end, he won. With a high-pitched screech, the window finally slid up and our own personal Tarzan disappeared in the dark depths of his house. Muttering and sighing, we took up our cooled spaces on the second-hand furniture and began surmising how the hell he managed to be locked out of his house with only a hard drive and a hand-towel.
We wouldn't find out for several weeks. Despite our efforts to deliver cookies, the items he left with us and invitations to come over for drinks, our neighbor never seemed to be home. Or he never answered the door, but this was my secret theory.
I saw the blinds twitch once in the upstairs window when Sadie and Brianna rang his doorbell.
They twitched another time when all the girls except for me went out to party on a Friday night, but I had a paper to work on.
I put a sign in my window. Flash your light to split a pizza.
Nothing.
A twitch.
The lights went on in the upstairs room, shining through the cracks along the edges of the glass pane. The blinds turned and flashed then closed.
Pizza it was. One x for pepperoni, 2 x for veggie delight
Two flashes. Talk about a man with good taste.
I ordered the pizza and a few minutes later the bell rang. I rushed down the stairs, pulling my pajama top off in order to put on a sweater. That was faster than I had expected and I was only half dressed. But who gets fancy for the pizza deliverer?
I opened the door and waved a twenty. At the neighbor boy, standing (in clothes this time, darn it) on the porch with a box of wine and a big candle. If I had known, I would have put on real pants and waved two twenties at him. Box of wine, a candle, and tussled, sunstreaked golden-brown hair? I was more than in love, I was down on my knees in adoration.
"My mother always said to never go eat at someone's house empty-handed. I can help pay for the pizza, too."
"I'm in lov—" I cleared my throat. "I'm in low supply of wine and candles. This is perfect. The pizza is my treat this time." And anytime you want to invite me over, I will come running like the wind. LIKE THE WIND!
My roommies didn't believe me when I told them who I spent the evening with. I told them his name was Scott and he was a computer-science major. He took back his hard drive, which had been sitting in a place of honor on our coffee table. I didn't tell them why he was naked outside the other day, but I'll tell you all now.
It was all quite logical. He had been working out, and was sweaty. Before jumping in the shower, he wanted to start an anti-virus on his computer, had second thoughts and decided it would be best to download everything on an external hard drive first. He couldn't find it in his boxes and called his mom to see if it was still at the house. She said no. He jumped in the shower. He got a phone call from his irate sister who was waiting outside, late for her waitressing shift, and threatening to leave the hard drive in the rain. He ran downstairs after grabbing the only towel he had in the bathroom. She was in the car to not get wet, he was already wet and had to run to the driveway, his door locked automatically, his sister drove off before he realized it and the rest is history.
I just regretted not seeing him sweaty after the work out. It must have been similar to dripping wet, but with flushed cheeks. I might have taken up the habit of keeping my lights off and my curtains open just for the off-chance of catching a peek.
The things we do.
For about two weeks after that, I was actually floating on a cloud of possibilities. Maybe he liked me. Maybe he preferred short girls with bookish glasses as opposed to tall, skinny blondes. We posted window messages to each other and met for coffee twice on campus.
The girls and I were surfing and studying one nightin the beginning of October when our internet connection went on the fritz.
"Who's in charge of the modem?" Sadie asked, banging her door on the way out of her room.
"Who knows where we put the modem?" Brianna asked at the same time from the other end of the hallways.
"Under the bay window," I answered. We tromped down the stairs to take a look. It was blinking, but not connecting to anything. "And Cheri's boyfriend is in charge of the modem."
Liza strolled in from the kitchen with a bowl of cereal. "They just broke up."
After half an hour of turning things off and on, clicking buttons and yelling at our computers, Sadie announced that there were five other networks available, but they all had passwords.
"I'm going to bed, let me know if you figure anything out." I went back upstairs and checked for networks. LordSith98. That had to be Scott. I posted a sign at the window.
What's your wifi password?
Nothing. No one was home.
The next afternoon, I tried again. What's your wifi password?
The blinds twitched. But then nothing.
I threw myself on the bed and wrapped my arms around my pillow, and squeezed hard enough to make it lay an egg. I was an idiot.
The doorbell rang. I raced downstairs to answer, and there was my nerdy, hunk of a neighbor in low slung jeans and a tee shirt with Cthulhu raising a glass of beer and saying, 'I love craft beer!'.
"Do you need my wifi password?" Scott asked.
I nodded.
"Do you know you're the fifth person from this house to ask me the password since yesterday night?"
"No. What a coincidence!" I played it stupid, which probably wasn't very smart.
"There really is no such thing as coincidences. Just probability statistics."
"Oh."
He leaned down and whispered in my ear. "Don't tell the others, but the password is Synchronicity1983, with a capital S."
Then, I swear on both Carl Jung's grave and Sting's guitar, this part is true, he kissed my ear. Just barely. But not an accidental brush of the lips, a real kiss. It was small, but there was moisture and a tiny click of the lips.
That was it, I thought. He has claimed me from the all the girls in this house as his ultimate chick-mate. We will kiss. We will drink wine. We will play Go-Pokeman until 3 am in secluded streets and smelly alleyways of this college town.
The next day, he friend-zoned me. Do you know what that felt like? Like listening to I Want It All and entering the wrestling ring, thinking it's your day to win the shiny, gold belt, only to be knocked down flat by a heavyweight champ in fluorescent pink and purple spandex, who promptly sits his ass on your face. It hurts. It's embarrassing, but you have no choice but to grin and bear it so the world doesn't see your pain and mock you endlessly.
He asked me if I wanted to come hang out with his guy friends. And he never made another move. We were friends the rest of the school year, and I thought that was all we ever would be.
You remember me saying he was fit and trim, with great buns? Yeah. He back-packs all over the world during his summer vacations. His family has money and they send him off to have fun with one or two friends.
He invited me to go.
Just me.
His friend. His non-travelling, never-been-back-packing friend to tour the world with him.
Of course, I said yes.
He bought the tickets and planned the trip with me. He smelled so good. I wanted to lick him the whole time. I shouldn't say that to you guys, but there you are.
One day before we left he got a phone call from his mom. His father had a heart-attack and was in the hospital. Scott had to go to him, obviously. We both said it at the same time, in stereo of tenor and alto, both voices shaking and breaking.
His for love of a father he might lose. Mine for love of a boy I couldn't have.
And that's my story.
"Leigh," the bartender says, "that can't be your story. It's not over. Where was the happy ending?"
"It's like Schmendrick says in The Last Unicorn, There are no happy endings because nothing ever ends. Here I am, traveling on my own. After he came to tell me, Scott borrowed my cell phone to check something, gave it back, said he would find me and left. I took the plane the next day and haven't heard from him since. No emails, no calls, no nothing."
"Maybe he can't reach you. How has the internet connection been in these places?"
"Fine," I say. If Scott wanted to contact me, he would. He could do anything if there were electronics involved. "How about another whiskey and that rain water?"
The door crashes wide open. The wind blows it into the wall and gusts of rain spray the inside of the bar. A man, dripping with water and half naked stands at the threshold. "Hark!" He yells and slams the door against the inclement weather. It could have been 'Argh,' though. With the wind it was hard to say.
"You all right, mate?" the bartender calls.
The man shakes water from his head, and holds up a phone in a zip lock baggie. In a warm tenor, he says, "Thank god I found this place. I've been stranded out there since the day before yesterday. I was looking for someone and got lost when the signal died."
I stand and start to walk, my muscles on autopilot.
"What the hell happened to your clothes?" one of the writers asks.
"I had a nasty run-in with some barbed-wire. Listen, I'm looking for a girl who used to live next door to me, her name is Leigh." The man's shirt is falling off in tatters, water streams from his hair and into his eyes, his jeans are torn, but that phone lights his face up blue and beautiful.
"This isn't possible. Scott?" I ask. His mouth pops open.
I fly into his arms. "How did you find me? Of all the bars in Australia, we never planned on coming here. Is this...is this some kind of amazing coincidence?" I ask. Not possible.
"There are no coincidences. There is only fate and cell phone tracking apps." He leans forward and I suspect he is going to kiss my ear. I turn my face towards his at the last second, and a meaningful coincidence occurs between his lips and mine.
The End. And it's a happy one.