The night was late and the drinkers in the bar were drunk. Some more so than others. The four of us sat at a table crowded with beer and opinions. We argued and speculated over the scene that was happening in the bathroom.
The scene became a commotion and it was clear that if one had to pee they must do it else where. Elsewhere was far across a park under scattered showers. As we drained beers we tried to hold on, to hold it, in hopes that the commotion would end and free the toilet. Soon uncomfortable, our speculations as to what was happening in there grew grisly.
"Blood, teeth, and hair all over the tile floor" one said.
"I say they are just fucking" said another.
"Nah, just passed out" said a third.
"Fuck this. I got to pee. I am going in there" said the fourth.
The look on the bartender's face as he insisted not to go in gave the impression that at least one of our speculations was right.
One took a trip through the rain and the park. Then another. Then a third. Then a fourth.
They all returned dampened and the night went on. More beers were ordered. Conversation resumed its natural rhythm, but due to their uncomfortably damp clothing everything said came out sharper than they intended.
"You don't hate Eric Clapton, I mean you can't Hate him" one said.
"I really fucking hate him. That's what I am saying, I fucking Hate Eric Clapton." said another.
"Well you got to admit he's got talent." said a third.
"He won't, he really does Hate Eric Clapton." said the fourth.
The conversation moved on, the beer was drank and the urge to pee returned.
"How long have they been in there?" one said.
"Fucking too fucking long." said another.
"Who ever is in there is probably passed out cold." said a third.
"They have been in there long enough to wake up sober. Fuck this I am going in" said the fourth.
With this he stood and made for the bathroom. Again the bartender tried to insist not to go in, but the fourth said something to him and the bartender turned to follow him into the bathroom.
We three sat sipping the last of our beers and crossing our legs.
"You think they are taking pictures in there?" one said.
"What do you think he said to get in there?" said another.
"He probably just guessed the password" said a third.
The fourth walked backward out of the bathroom burdened by something heavy, the body of a very drunk person. A man who was not the bartender carried the drunkards feet. They moved through the doorway, down the stairs and out of the bar.
"Well I guess its open now" one said.
"Go find out" said another.
"My pleasure" said a third.
As she moved towards the bathroom the bartender popped his head out of the door. The expression on his face was pleading, both uncomfortable and begging forgiveness.
"Its not open." She said returning to the table.
"Bullshit!" said one.
"Bullshit!" said another.
They finished their beers. The bartender came out of the bathroom and bought us a round of beers.
"The bathroom is available" he said apologetically.
We three began to wonder where the fourth had gone. Then he entered the bar. He sat down grinning and signaled to the bartender for a beer. The three of us waited for an explanation or a story but all the fourth said was, "I should do that more often."
The bartender brought his beer, patted him on the shoulder smiling and said, "Gentle liar." and walked away chuckling.
"Was he talking about you?" one said.
"What did that mean?" said another.
"How did you get in there?" said a third.
"Let me just say that sometimes the only way to get back stage is to say you are a doctor." the fourth said.