The Decameron 2.0

Day 9.1 Coincidence - WHAT'S YOUR WIFI PASSWORD LeighWStuart

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.