The Crapper

The Crapper 

The twenty-first century was truly something. 

Economic booms, terrorist-attacks, civil wars, pandemics, consumerism, and climate change. 

FIFA, EGOT, streaming services, rovers on Mars, and the Internet. 

Sometimes, I thought, there needs to be a pause button—a moment of peace amidst this sea of activity. 

My life was standard, if a bit dull, alone in my Haussmann apartment. 

At least I had a picturesque view of the Eiffel Tower, a stable job, and an ami, albeit a much older one. 

Yes, my old friend, Simon, was quite an eccentric fellow. 

***

I jolt awake, feeling huge, frosty hands shaking my shoulders. Fear seizes my chest as I squint in the moonlight. 

“Eureka!” cries a buoyantly accented voice. “Johnathan, mon frère, I’ve done it!” 

I catch a faint whiff of ketchup as warm arms envelop my body. 

“S-Simon, what are you doing here at this hour?” I sleepily glance at the alarm clock on my bedside table. 3:23AM. 

“Well, I was tinkering around in my Lab as usual when I was struck by a stupendous idea!” Simon mimics an explosion. “You absolutely must see it.” 

His scarce tufts of shock-white hair blow in the breeze brought by my open window. 

Parisian nights are humid enough to warrant open windows. 

But . . . 

“Simon, did you climb through my window?” 

“Maybe,” Simon winks at me, crinkling his forehead. “But that is not important. What’s important is for you to get your butt out of bed!” 

“No,” I mumble, sinking deeper into my creamy pillow. “I need to sleep.” 

Suddenly the covers are ripped from my body and I’m exposed to a shock of chilly air. A hand roughly drags me to my feet and I stumble, desperately wanting to fall back into my warm cocoon of slumber. 

“Wait!” 

“What is it, my dear boy? The Lab is calling!” Simon sticks his leg through the window. 

I pull him back. “There’s something called the door, you know.” 

“Ah oui, the treacherous boredom of doors.” 

Only once we’re out of my apartment do I realize I’m still in my pajamas. 

***

Simon is a man of honor. 

When he says there is something important, it usually is.

 In the five years since we’ve been friends, I’ve learned a lot about him. My friends say that our friendship is quite bizarre, but I don’t mind.

Simon was a frequenter of the Louvre, but he never came with family or friends—he was an outlier. 

So, at first, I took pity on him, but I quickly learned that he didn’t need it—his brilliance and jolly attitude was enough to light up Europe. 

Simon spent most of his time in his flat, or the Lab, as he called it.  

Walking into the Lab at three in the morning, I’m struck by how dirty it is. A nine by nine square feet room can barely store a bed as it is, but Simon managed to pack it with every gadget in history. Crooked oak shelves scale each wall, holding leather-bound tombs, neon-colored vials, and unidentifiable black stuff.  

The lightbulb above me flickers lazily. 

I yawn, falling into a fuzzy armchair. 

Simon rushes over to the out-of-place island countertop in the center of the room.

“It’s like a club. But not!” He lifts a slender piece of wood into the air. Disgustingly flashy fluorescent lights are attached to the sides. 

I rub my eyes. “It just looks like a stick to me.”

“No, mon frere! Clubs have spikes. Mine has a blade!”

“Then it’s an ax.”

“No!” Simon cries in frustration. “It’s a Crapper!” 

I cough, eyes watering. “What did you say?” 

“A Crapper! I named it after myself. All good inventors do.” 

“Your invention is bad enough, please don’t name it Crapper.” 

“Don’t be such a Debbie Downer. It’s quite rude to shoot down a person’s dreams.”

I sigh. “Simon, you woke me up at 3 AM to look at a stick.” 

“A Crapper, Jonathan. A Crapper. Remember that!” 

I internally groan. 

“You haven't even seen the best part.” Simon taps the stick—the Crapper, I mean—against the wall and points it at me. 

Before I can move, a stream of lime green goo collides with my face. 

I splutter in an attempt to shout “stop!” but swallow the sour substance instead. I sit, shell-shocked, as the goo relentlessly slams into my face. 

When it finally ceases, I’m not amused. “Let me guess, that’s supposed to scare the bad guys.”  

“The bad guys,” Simon agrees. “And watch!” He wildly swings the Crapper with an eager grin. 

I duck under a side table, narrowly escaping decapitation. 

I immediately crawl out, though, when my hands meet a syrupy yellow liquid. I’ve always known Simon was off his bonkers, but this is a new level of crazy, even for him. 

I wipe the goo on my pajama pants. 

He cackles, marveling at the Crapper. “Exceptional, isn’t it?” 

“That’s one way to put it.” I say cautiously. “Why don’t you put the Crapper down?”

“I’m thinking of selling them,” Simon thinks aloud. He sets it down absently, much to my relief. “What do you think of €72.9 for one?” 

“No one would buy that,” I answer, exasperated. I wipe my face with the sleeve of my pajamas. 

“But, I’ve already choreographed a dance routine for the advertisements,” Simon argues woefully. Suddenly, his eyes light up. “Would you like to see it?” 

“NO!” I shout in panic. I’m still recovering from the last dance Simon performed. 

His face falls. 

I take a deep breath, inhaling acidic ketchup scents. “Why don’t we put this on the backburner for now and get a bit of sleep?” I gently suggest. 

Simon sighs, ruffling his thinning tufts of alabaster hair. “Johnny boy, asseyez-vous, asseyez-vous,” he pats one of the wobbly stools by the countertop that he’s seated on. 

“Are you sure this isn’t going to give me a blue butt rash like last week?” 

“Of course not, who do you take me for?”

When I comply, Simon smiles. 

“Listen well, Johnny boy: you must broaden your horizons. There is a whole world outside this.” He taps my temple. “If no one embraced gravity, do you think there’d be airplanes flying above us right now? Or boats for that matter?” 

I cave. “I suppose not.” 

“So, embrace the Crapper.” Simon emphasizes. 

I roll my eyes. “OK, I embrace the Crapper. It—um—isn’t horrible.” 

“No, I mean go embrace it. Give it a hug.” 

For a second, I think I heard him wrong. “I’m not hugging a stick!” 

“A Crapper,” Simon corrects. 

“Crapper, stick—whatever! I’m not hugging it!” I stand up, knocking the stool over. “This is ridiculous.” 

“Do it.” Simon waves the stick in front of my face. 

“No!”

“Yes.” 

“No!’ 

“You know you want—” 

I gasp. 

I sit up in bed, feeling my night shirt sticking to my back. 

I squeeze my eyes. It was just a dream, just a dream. 

Just a dream. 

“Eureka! I’ve done it!” 

I whip my eyes around to my open window. 

A dark figure heaves itself though my open window sill. 

Merde.