Categories > Original > Humor
It happened that one year, during the rainy season, the dam up river from the resort town of Bastionville suffered a severe malfunction, which caused the river to swell and the town to become flooded. Tourist season hadn't quite begun yet, so there wasn't nearly as much pandemonium as there could have been. Nevertheless, the greater portion of homes and businesses were greatly submerged.
Regina was a twenty-two-year-old pianist and alcoholic in her own right. She made her money playing at the lounge in Bastionville's luxurious Rothshield Hotel: a job she probably would have been fired from, were it not for the flood; for the night it hit, Regina was passed out inside the baby grand piano that belonged to the Rothshield Lounge. Business had been slow that night, due to the driving rain, gale-force wind, and rumors of a riot that had supposedly broke out at the compound up river, where the dam was located. With her boss at an engagement party in a different part of the hotel, and no customers to speak of, Regina figured it was as good a time as any to sleep off her excruciating hangover. So she crawled inside the shell of the baby grand, where she wouldn't be noticed, and passed out.
She awoke a few hours later, damp and with sore back from sleeping on top of the cords and mallets that line the insides of pianos. It felt as if the ground was wobbling beneath the legs of the baby grand.
'I must still be hung over.' Regina thought to herself. All of the wobbling was beginning to take its toll on her stomach, so she leaned over the side of the piano and vomited.
"Mr. Vitelli's gonna have my ass for that." She mumbled. Mr. Vitelli was her boss, and had that actually been the floor of the Rothshield Lounge, he would have, indeed, had her ass; but it wasn't, and she took notice of that by the end of her second heave, when it became apparent that her vomit was hitting a liquid-thus making a similar sound to when one vomits into a toilet-rather than the sickening splatter it makes when hitting a finely-varnished, hardwood floor.
She sat up and looked around her: the tops of street-lamps and mostly-submerged automobiles passed by her. It appeared she was floating down Prime Street: the street that ran along the riverfront.
Realizing that she was actually seasick, and not hung-over, she suddenly needed a drink. Luckily for her, she was floating passed the wine shop and a stray bottle of rum was bobbing atop the water. She went to grab it, but it was out of reach. She splashed in the water, trying to make the piano float closer to the bottle, but soon discovered it was far too heavy and it would probably be much easier to try and make the bottle come to her. She splashed some more, trying to coax the bottle towards her. This, however, brought a great deal of water into the hull of the piano, so, in fear of sinking her vessel, she stopped.
If she wanted this bottle of rum-and she did, with an addict's fervor-she decided she would have to develop some ingenuity, and fast, for the current was quickly sweeping the bottle further and further away. The idea finally struck her that she could make a crude lasso out of her stockings, which she could catch the bottle with and draw closer to her.
As quickly as she could, she kicked off her black high-heels and threw them down on the cords of the baby grand. She then began tearing off her stockings. Halfway through the process, however, she heard someone.
"Darling, isn't that the little drunk girl from the lounge?"
"Why, yes darling, I do believe it is. But what in the world is she doing?"
"She appears to be stripping naked, darling."
"Oh dear. Little drunk girl from the lounge! Is that you over there?" The man's voice called to Regina.
Startled, Regina's attention turned away from removing her sopping pantyhose and over to the couple that had called to her. It was Mr. and Mrs. Lowenthall: regulars from the lounge. They were rich, waspy types: Mr. Lowenthall, tall and slender, wearing a top hat and monocle; Mrs. Lowenthall was short and stocky, sitting on the floor of their rowboat wither her humorously undersized parasol barely protecting her massive body from the rain.
"Oh! Mr. and Mrs. Lowenthall! ... I was... I was just... I was trying to get that bottle of rum floating over there by making my pantyhose into a lasso!" She finally admitted, after stuttering to try and make up an excuse.
Mr. Lowenthall let out a hardy guffaw. "Of course you were." But something occurred to him. "But, my dear, full bottles of liquor don't float."
Without missing a beat, the bottle sank below the surface and down to the sub aqua sidewalk below, along with her heart.
"Neither do baby grand pianos." Mrs. Lowenthall added, and thus the piano began to sink as well.
"Oh, thanks a fuckin' lot!" Regina snapped, as her vessel descended.
Regina was a twenty-two-year-old pianist and alcoholic in her own right. She made her money playing at the lounge in Bastionville's luxurious Rothshield Hotel: a job she probably would have been fired from, were it not for the flood; for the night it hit, Regina was passed out inside the baby grand piano that belonged to the Rothshield Lounge. Business had been slow that night, due to the driving rain, gale-force wind, and rumors of a riot that had supposedly broke out at the compound up river, where the dam was located. With her boss at an engagement party in a different part of the hotel, and no customers to speak of, Regina figured it was as good a time as any to sleep off her excruciating hangover. So she crawled inside the shell of the baby grand, where she wouldn't be noticed, and passed out.
She awoke a few hours later, damp and with sore back from sleeping on top of the cords and mallets that line the insides of pianos. It felt as if the ground was wobbling beneath the legs of the baby grand.
'I must still be hung over.' Regina thought to herself. All of the wobbling was beginning to take its toll on her stomach, so she leaned over the side of the piano and vomited.
"Mr. Vitelli's gonna have my ass for that." She mumbled. Mr. Vitelli was her boss, and had that actually been the floor of the Rothshield Lounge, he would have, indeed, had her ass; but it wasn't, and she took notice of that by the end of her second heave, when it became apparent that her vomit was hitting a liquid-thus making a similar sound to when one vomits into a toilet-rather than the sickening splatter it makes when hitting a finely-varnished, hardwood floor.
She sat up and looked around her: the tops of street-lamps and mostly-submerged automobiles passed by her. It appeared she was floating down Prime Street: the street that ran along the riverfront.
Realizing that she was actually seasick, and not hung-over, she suddenly needed a drink. Luckily for her, she was floating passed the wine shop and a stray bottle of rum was bobbing atop the water. She went to grab it, but it was out of reach. She splashed in the water, trying to make the piano float closer to the bottle, but soon discovered it was far too heavy and it would probably be much easier to try and make the bottle come to her. She splashed some more, trying to coax the bottle towards her. This, however, brought a great deal of water into the hull of the piano, so, in fear of sinking her vessel, she stopped.
If she wanted this bottle of rum-and she did, with an addict's fervor-she decided she would have to develop some ingenuity, and fast, for the current was quickly sweeping the bottle further and further away. The idea finally struck her that she could make a crude lasso out of her stockings, which she could catch the bottle with and draw closer to her.
As quickly as she could, she kicked off her black high-heels and threw them down on the cords of the baby grand. She then began tearing off her stockings. Halfway through the process, however, she heard someone.
"Darling, isn't that the little drunk girl from the lounge?"
"Why, yes darling, I do believe it is. But what in the world is she doing?"
"She appears to be stripping naked, darling."
"Oh dear. Little drunk girl from the lounge! Is that you over there?" The man's voice called to Regina.
Startled, Regina's attention turned away from removing her sopping pantyhose and over to the couple that had called to her. It was Mr. and Mrs. Lowenthall: regulars from the lounge. They were rich, waspy types: Mr. Lowenthall, tall and slender, wearing a top hat and monocle; Mrs. Lowenthall was short and stocky, sitting on the floor of their rowboat wither her humorously undersized parasol barely protecting her massive body from the rain.
"Oh! Mr. and Mrs. Lowenthall! ... I was... I was just... I was trying to get that bottle of rum floating over there by making my pantyhose into a lasso!" She finally admitted, after stuttering to try and make up an excuse.
Mr. Lowenthall let out a hardy guffaw. "Of course you were." But something occurred to him. "But, my dear, full bottles of liquor don't float."
Without missing a beat, the bottle sank below the surface and down to the sub aqua sidewalk below, along with her heart.
"Neither do baby grand pianos." Mrs. Lowenthall added, and thus the piano began to sink as well.
"Oh, thanks a fuckin' lot!" Regina snapped, as her vessel descended.
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