The Bold and the Bashful (or Time Fortunate)

Time travel isn’t supposed to be possible. Hell, it’s not even probable. In fact it’s damn near the most improbable thing you’re expecting to hear about, especially given my situation.

I’ve been in some tight jams before. But this? This one really takes the cake. Hell, this one takes the cake, the whole cake and nothing but the cake. If I was a gambler then I would comfortably tell you to put your money on my happy ass having extreme difficulties figuring out how to get out of this one.

There I was: shirt untucked, pants down…did I mention I was using the restroom? I guess that would help. Nature called while I was working and so there I was on the porcelain throne, admiring the intricacies of the morning’s paper, and contemplating life in general, when it happened!

Now, there’s several phrases you don’t really want to hear from a person on the toilet, and “it happened!” is right up there next to “Oh my god!” and “Would you look at that?!” 

Any one of those would have worked in this situation but let me explain.

I’m not talking about some bout of gastrointestinal discomfort. I would have welcomed a healthy dose of Moctezuma’s revenge at this point. No, I’m talking about when I reached behind me to perform the ceremonial flush, things did not go according to plan. There was a heart-stopping boom, a noise like the hose attachment coming off of a vacuum (and don’t pretend you don’t know what that sounds like) and then kind of a muffled pop. Then the spinning started.

 When I was a kid, I had an older cousin who used to delight in grabbing us under the armpits, picking us up and spinning us around the room until we begged him to stop. I remember being all wobbly legged and feeling like my brain was just spinning around in my skull, like a pickled egg in a jar.

This sensation was so much worse than that. The blood roared in my ears. Vertigo reached out and sucker-punched my brain. Then, like someone slapping a spinning quarter, it all stopped. My eyes stopped spinning in their sockets and I took stock of my surroundings. 

I was definitely not in my bathroom anymore. Instead I was in some dimly lit room, in what appeared to be a colonial style house. There was a stack of wooden trunks to my immediate left. A huge wooden desk sat in the opposite corner from me and across from me there was a small cot, next to an unlit fireplace. Several things happened in rapid succession then.

First and foremost, I noticed a pretty significant draft at that point (for obvious reasons) and my feet were starting to get very cold, very quickly. The flickering light of an oil lantern gave the whole room a cheerful glow but did nothing to stop the bone-numbing chill that seemed to creep in like a slow fog. It also gave off a rather pungy, acrid smell like overcooked meat. 

Second thing to dawn on me, I was not alone in this dank, wintery room with wooden floors and bad smelling oil lamps.

There was a man seated at the desk. His hair was around shoulder length and even though it was freshly powdered (at least I hoped it was powder…otherwise that was the worst case of dandruff I had ever seen), but the curly tips held hints of copper, like a faded penny. His mouth was set in a grim line and the bags under his eyes were puffy and dark. He must have been spending many sleepless nights on that uncomfortable cot, I thought . His shoulders sloped forward, and his feather pen scratched its way across the page. He sighed heavily, set the quill down and picked up a small cylinder, peppered the paper with sand and blew on it gently.

“Lieutenant,” his voice boomed like thunder. He still hadn’t noticed me yet because his eyes were fixed on his paper but it was only a matter of time I decided. He reached up with a hand and rubbed his jawline, wincing. 

“Lieutenant!” he said, much louder the second time. The door burst open and a pink-faced man rushed in. The opening door shielded me from the lieutenant’s immediate view, thankfully. I tried to shift my pants up higher but the newspaper on my lap crinkled so I stopped immediately. Neither man took notice though.

“Apologies, General, sir,” the lieutenant said. “We’ve just discovered the two deserters from earlier have been captured by the redcoats across the river. Colonel Reed was investigating and demanded I verify sources before reporting the news to you, sir.”

The man at the desk rubbed his tired eyes with his hands, shaking his head. A heavy sigh hissed out of his nostrils.

“We can’t take much more of this,” he said, shifting back into his chair.

“I agree, sir.”

“Here’s hoping the redcoats hold off hanging those men until the storm is over. Would be a shame to be hung on a night as cold as this one.” the general said. “Those deserting dogs have no doubt shared all they know of this army with our enemies by this point.”

“I shouldn’t doubt it, sir,” the lieutenant simpered, shifting around on his feet.

“Blast it all,” the general shook his head once. He handed the lieutenant the paper. “Take this and see that it gets delivered to General Gates with our fastest messenger.”

“Yes sir!”

The lieutenant rushed out and slammed the door behind him. For the first time the general looked up from his desk, his brow furrowed with irritation. The irritation quickly changed to shock and confusion when he saw me.

“Good God above!” the man exclaimed. “Lieutenant!”

“P-P-President Washington, sir. It’s an h-h-honor,” I stammered. (Don’t judge. How would you feel, riding a time-traveling toilet only to come face-to-face with one of the greatest men in history? It’s not like I had a speech prepared or something.)

“Lieutenant!” Washington bellowed. He rose to his feet, pointing at my heart. “Who are you!? What are you doing in my private quarters? I will have you tried and hanged for this!” 

His serious brown eyes bored holes into me. I must inform you, my dear reader, that I was terrified. First of all my pants were still down around my knees so I made an awkward, scrambling effort to cover myself with the newspaper. There was no doubt that Washington meant every word he said. I was glad I was sitting on the toilet because the thought of being hung, well it scared me so bad I felt nature call again. I may be the world’s first time traveler, but I was riding a toilet and had no dignity left.

Plus the fact that I’m not sure what implications my death would have had if I died in the 1700’s, and, to be quite honest, I didn’t want to find out.

“Mr. President, sir, I’m not a spy. I assure you,” I explained. “I don’t know how to explain this..uh…current..uh…predicament, but I am definitely not a spy.”

He had been in the midst of bellowing for the lieutenant again, when he suddenly stopped.

“Why do you keep addressing me as that? How do you know my name? Speak quick!” He continued to glare at me. You’ve never been glared at until it’s done by George Washington while you sit, pants down, on the john.

“Keep calling you what, sir?” Smooth line, I know, but I couldn’t think straight.

“President. President Washington,” he stumbled through the answer as if the word troubled him and then suddenly winced, rubbing his jaw again.

“Because that’s who you are, sir,” I said. His eyes darkened with confusion, so I quickly added, “You’re the first president of the United States. You uhhh….uhhh….Your face appears on the dollar bill and Mount Rushmore. I don’t know how to tell you this but you’re one of the most famous people in history!”

His eyes narrowed with skepticism.

“Lieutenant!” he bellowed again. He continued to point at me. “Not only are you some form of spy, judging by the way you are speaking you obviously have contracted some kind of blood fever. And it’s no wonder, dressed the way you are! It is December after all!”

“Wait, wait,” I pleaded. “First tell me one thing. What’s the date?”

“Today is the 24th day of December,” Washington said. “In this 1776 year of our lord.”

December…December…I racked my brain. No wonder he was puzzled, the position of president didn’t even exist yet.

“It’s December 24th?! That means you’re set to cross the river tonight!”

“The Delaware,” Washington answered. He squinted hard at me. 

“Yes, that’s it!” I snapped my fingers. “That’s the one. You cross the river and catch the British off guard.”

“There is a garrison of Hessians positioned across the river,” Washington said, thunderstruck. “How came you by this knowledge? How do you know so much of my plans?”

“I guess it wouldn’t help if I said I knew what happened in the future?” I said. Here I was trying to convince a founding father that I was clairvoyant, like my luck had been so successful thus far today. I was starting to think it was time I came to grips with possibly being hung by George Washington and his ragtag army. What would happen if I was hung in the past? An endless time loop? A time shift? I had to think of something and I mean like in a matter of seconds. Suddenly I had a spark of insanity, or genius (funny how both those things are related) formed in my brain. “I’m a witch!”

(Let’s take a quick pause here and take stock of the situation: I am in the past and addressing a very powerful, colonial white man. I have just declared myself to be the one thing that is guaranteed to not only get me hung, but possibly burned at the stake. Now you are free to judge my stupidity.)

“If no harm comes to me, not only will you be successful tonight,” I continued. It was time to lay it on thick. “But also your entire campaign against the British will end in victory.”

Washington paused, mulling this latest revelation over, scratching the top of his head. Time to sweeten the deal.

“Also, your name will echo across the halls of time,” I said. (Yes, I really used that phrase. I figured it sounded more mystical.) “Americans…I mean uhhh…colonists will remember your name for time immemorial.”

Washington remained silent but I could see the wheels turning beneath that powered scalp. 

“I promise you a life of immortality. Everyone will know your name,” I said.

“Here I face the same dilemma of Macbeth,” Washington muttered to himself. “I don’t credit what you say, witch, but it does appear to me you know far more than the ordinary spy.”

I swallowed nervously. 

“You mentioned earlier about crossing the Delaware,” he stood and moved closer to address me. “How do you know this?”

I suddenly wished I had paid more attention in Mrs. Lindner’s history class. Damn. 

“Tonight you plan on crossing the river and surprising the British forces,” I said. Then I added for extra effect, “I foresaw it. Your army loaded into boats will catch the British and their allies unaware and this will prove to be the turning point in the war.”

“I have not spoken of this plan to anyone. As a matter of fact, I have just sent a message to General Gates that is completely false. I fear the lieutenant in charge of bearing it has already been bought by King George’s gold and is at this moment bearing the news across the river. Probably why it is taking so long for him to answer me…blast that man!”

“Mr. President, sir, I assure you, I am not a spy and you may call me a witch or apparition, whichever you please,” I said. “But if you don’t hang me, all things I said will come true and more.”

He moved slowly over to the empty fireplace and stared hard at the blackened log there. 

“I wish I could believe you, witch. The men have been so long at this and there is not much left for them to hold on to. They lose faith. This cold weather has sharper teeth than all the British combined. My men starve, and the fire in their hearts and bellies grows colder and colder.”

I realized this was it, one way or the other. “Fortune rewards the bold, right?” 

He smiled for the first time, a grim smile. His serious eyes took on a sad cast as he continued gazing at the cold fireplace.

“Indeed,” he spoke bitterly. “Indeed.”

He stroked his jawline again.

“Blast! This tooth aches,” he said. He closed his eyes, drew air in hard through his nostrils. He opened his eyes and leveled his gaze back on me. “You realize that the river is currently choked with ice? How am I supposed to motivate those men out there to do this? Those men, who have suffered defeat upon defeat and their very courage hangs by a thread. What do you propose, witch? I deliver some rousing speech and they will jump to the impossible task I set before them. Pah! They will cast me out as their general and I wouldn’t fault them at all.”

“No speech needed,” I said. “Just look them in the eye and say ‘Men, get in the boats.’” 

He smirked. 

“I see. No need to speak to their motivation. An order, simple and direct. No room for rebuke or argument. Good strategy.” He straightened back and tugged the lapels of his coat. “Very well, witch. I believe I shall take your advice. Fortune does indeed reward the bold. I have been playing far too conservatively. Now is the time for bold action and forthright decisions.”

“Correct, sir.”

“We shall take this war to the British and catch them unawares.”

“Correct again, sir.”

“After we burn you for your witchcraft.”

“Corr…wait? What?!”

““Men! To me at once!,” he glared at me and bellowed again.

 I heard the scraping of chairs below me and then the soft thud of boots coming up the stairs. My heart started hammering in my chest and I felt my head start spinning. No, this could not be happening! In a last ditch effort I spun as far I could and grabbed the toilet handle and flushed. Washington, who seemed to realize that I was making a break for it, started my way but immediately the room started to spin. The colors started to blend and blur together like a tie-dye whirlpool. The same spinning sensation and this time I almost welcomed it…almost. I closed my eyes and braced for the nausea.

When I opened my eyes, I found I had finally returned to my own bathroom. I sobbed. I heaved a sigh of relief. And finally I leapt up from the toilet that had been the cause of this whole damn thing.

I walked over to the sink, washed my hands and then splashed some water on my face. Maybe I should take the rest of the day off, I thought. I have a feeling that escaping being burned at the stake by a man who helped create my country could qualify as an excuse for a mental health day.

A knock on the door brought things back into focus.

“Are you okay in there ma’am?” came the voice of my assistant.

“Yes, Jane. I’ll be out in a second,” I said. I dried my hands and face. No day off, after all. If fortune rewarded the bold in Washington’s case, maybe it would do the same for me. 

I opened the door and there was my assistant Jane, concern obvious on her face.

“Jane, do you happen to know what Washington said to his men before they crossed the Delaware?” I asked. 

“Are you sure you’re okay, Madam President?”

“He said, ‘Men, get in the boat,’” I said. “Simple and direct. Not a question. Just a command.”

“Ma’am?”

“I have an answer for that trade war problem we are facing Jane. But first put an ‘Out of order’ sign on this door. I don’t want this bathroom used.”

I walked away leaving Jane standing there, mouth agape. 

Fortune does reward the bold after all.