‘James Wilson lighted a cigarette while soaking his feet in benzine. He may live,’ my friend Roland read aloud from his newspaper. ‘Sometimes I despair about the sanity of people.’ He peered at me over the top of his horn-rimmed spectacles, ‘Clearly some people do need a warning sign; “Do not put your hand in the fire.”’
I dodged the accusation. ‘Benzine?’ I inquired, ‘What’s that? Sounds suspiciously American to me.’
‘You might find it’s what the German’s call petrol,’ Roland spoke to me as I imagine the butler Jeeves often spoke to Bertie Wooster, ‘I believe it has the chemical composition of …’
‘Do people still soak their feet?’ I interjected, trying to curtail the lecture Roland had begun.
‘Well, a certain James Wilson won’t do it again,’ Roland guffawed, his face reddening and he turned the page of his broadsheet in search of another titbit to feed to me.
A smile split his face and his dentures slipped slightly. ‘Listen to this: “A sixteen-year-old boy appeared in the Assizes yesterday. He had telephoned his girlfriend to tell her that he loved her. The operator interrupted and told him to hang up and not to waste electricity on an unnecessary call. When he continued, the operator informed the police. The magistrate called for a psychiatric report.”
‘It doesn’t say whether the report is for the boy or the telephone operator.’
Roland reached for the teapot and winked. ‘All that’s left to say is that you couldn’t make it up.’
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Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 