the out-of-towners (part four)

The bathroom attendant at the club we visited on our second night was a large, intimidating woman who passed her time by trying to bully the toilet frequenters into giving her money.

“I know you got some spare change in there.. .Wouldn’t kill you to part with some…”

“While you all are having a good time out there, I’m trying to make a living in here. I gotta feed my family, you know.”

I was naturally one of the most frequent of the frequenters, and the more times I dropped by, the more she seemed to think I owed her personally. Yet each visit found me increasingly inebriated, and more determined to make a statement against this unwarranted harassment.

It was my 3rd or 4th bathroom stop, this one with Bonne in tow, during which I hatched my brilliant plan. While the attendant blathered on to some blondes in the corner about her welfare situation, I grabbed a lollipop from the basket set out next to the hair supplies and darted out the door.

“Wait Bonne!” Other Bonne squealed as she fiddled with her hair. Big mistake. Old Welfare had seen everything, and the last image I saw before escaping was her rising up ominously and advancing on the oblivious Bianca.

Perhaps I should have alerted Bonne as to the plan, I mused as I leaned against the wall outside with my lollipop.

There was a terrified squeal from inside the bathroom, and the blondes tumbled over each other out the door in their hurry to evacuate. Uh oh. I was debating either going back in or making a run for it, when Bonne burst out, red-faced and fuming.

“THAT BITCH GRABBED ME!” She screamed, showing me the red marks on her arm from where she had been manhandled. “She grabbed me and threatened me!!! Where’s the manager?! I’m getting her fired while the marks are still fresh!!”

How fun! I thought, as I sucked on my treat and followed Bonne around the establishment until we forgot what we were looking for in the first place and decided to have another drink.

Two hours later we're literally rolling out onto the sidewalk; Bonne is three sheets to the wind and livid at herself for indulging in her latest hook-up.

“He had a PIG! NOSE!!!!” Bonne screams, collapsing in the middle of the street for emphasis. I have to drag her, still in her prostrate position, to the curb; it’s as if she’d rather be hit by a cab then have to live forever with the memory of making out with a stubby-nosed Australian.

“All right, you stay there while I try to hail us a cab,” I say, forgetting the impossibility of actually doing so in London. After about ten minutes, I give up and extend my sore arm to Bonne, who has made herself quite comfortable.

“Pull yourself together! You can’t just lie here on the sidewalk all night,” I reprimand, yanking her onto her feet. “We’re going to have to walk until we find to a phone booth.”

My charge, however, has a different agenda, and as soon as she is stable makes a beeline for the river. My heart starts palpitating as she mounts the stone ledge.

“Bonne!” I shriek, running after her. “Stop! He wasn’t THAT bad looking!”

“I have to pee!” The answer is now muffled from behind the wall. I grind my heel into the cement and swing a leg over, to where I am faced with the sight of Bonne mooning me as she pops a squat next to the river. As usual, I have to go too.

So we crouch in silence, watched by only the blinking London eye as we relieve ourselves into the Thames. We’re just zipping up our skirts and ready to re-mount the wall when, out of nowhere, a spotlight swoops across the river to land on us.

“GAHH! BONNE!” I push her towards the wall as she squeals indiscernable words of panic. “We have to move! MOVE!”

Like crack-addled cheerleaders, we attempt to spot each other in a launch over the wall without deciding which of us is going first. The boat which owns the spotlight is drawing nearer every second. Finally, I grab Bonne’s legs and hoist her upward, where she tumbles heavily over the ledge. Silence. I pray she hasn’t passed out.

“Bonne, HELP ME!” I screech. A hand appears and flails half heartedly. After a succession of upward leaps, I finally manage to grab a hold of it, and somehow haul myself, skinning knees and elbows along the way, onto the pavement beside her.

“Holy shit,” I gasp, looking up at the stars. “What just happened?!”

But Bonne, lying on the sidewalk next to me, is snoring peacefully. Feeling a sudden wave of dread, I slap her into consciousness.

“Ok, ok, wake up, it’s time to move. We’re going to walk a little while until we get to Janine’s house, and you can sleep there, ok?”

She nods, drowsily, wobbling slowly to her feet with a look of determination. I feel a surge of hope; maybe we’ll make it home after all.

But Bonne lies down outside Big Ben, where we stop to look upwards and admire the lights of the greatest clock in the world. She lies down again outside the phone booth where I use up the last euro on my calling card trying, unsuccessfully, to reach a decent cab company. I have to drag her to Trafalgar Square, where her feet give out once again and we are forced to take a seat on the monuments beside fellow creatures of the night.

Two boys walking by offer us “chok’lit?” in an endearing plea, but not all the street-walkers seem so friendly. A far too close encounter with a homeless man inspires us to continue on our journey, which, it is becoming more and more apparent, is not so much destination-oriented navigation as it is, yet again, drunken wandering through the maze that is London night.

“Ok, up, up we go!” I pretend to be cheerful, hauling Bonne to her feet for what I hope is the last time tonight. We march in silence, grimly, down a never-ending stretch of open road, gloomy parks on either side. I have a sinking feeling that we’re nowhere near Janine’s house, and that our final resort may have to be sharing a bench with one of the park’s residents. I’m still sticking out my hand half-heartedly, even though resigned to the fact that taxis are un-hailable in this town, so when a pair of lights do an about face and zoom up beside us, I assume the worst and prod Bonne to keep walking.

“Hello! Hello!” A man is sticking his head out.
“Don’t look.” I growl.
“But Bonne, I think it’s a taxi.”

And, thank god, at last it is. The driver is ridiculously peppy for this time of the night, and gives us an audio tour of London for the duration of the ride home. We learn that we were about to come upon Buckingham Palace, in which the Queen is currently sleeping due to the position of the Union Jack flag above.

We crawl into Janine's at around the same time we did the morning before. My body is by this time completely out of whack, and against my better judgement I take anxiety medication to help me sleep. I have an ominous feeling in the pit of my stomach that I don't want to have when I wake up, and I have an overwhelming desire to return to calm, navigable Rennes.