The Brown Stain (part 1)

The setting: a few old codgers on their bucket list tour. A borderline illegal hostel near Queen’s Wharf, Auckland, Aotearoa-New Zealand.

12.30am. There were only two room keys for the seven of them. *

‘Billy, I need the room key.’

Billy grumbled and reached without opening his eyes, chucking it to Ron.

Ron sidled off to the bathroom. His kidneys had been acting up. He'd been in and out of Rotorua hospital for weeks. He knew that his mates were wondering if this might be their last hurrah... * They'd come up for The Others Way festival; the nice hostels were booked solid. The old codgers weren't exactly swimming in money. Superannuation was worth less than it was when their parents retired a generation ago. It barely kept their heads above water in the 2020's, even with their Gold Cards. Ah, those were the days, before deregulation and laissez-faire economics broke the heart of this once-noble city... the quarter-acre dream, pavlova, Marmite, 4-point tries, buzzy bee, school milk, Weetbix, the Ministry of Works and all that nostalgic Kiwiana junk. It's a second-rate Sydney nowadays, but Auckland used to have a flavour all its own; these gentlemen were old enough to remember the punk scene that had spread like wildfire in the late 1970's. Then those Rogernomics bastards killed it off. The jaffas didn't know how lucky they were back then. Still, despite their eminence, this squalid hellhole was the best that they could afford. New Zealand isn't a country that prizes the elderly, except in politics! 🤣 *

The flow wasn’t as strong as Ron was expecting, and the yellowish urine smelled putrid. The hostel was converted from office space, and it hadn’t been a graceful conversion.

These corporate bathrooms are a damn sight better than the shoddy plumbing in some of those other hostels we've been to, though, thought Ron. Ron used to be a plumber, back before his back and hips gave out. Crouching around in rich people’s houses fixing their leaky pipes or installing their shower, he wondered how many of his clients knew that he overheard their dramas… not that he judged people.

Who wants to know whether the Prime Minister's toilet was backed up because of a failed orgy where someone spiked the drinks with laxatives? It’s their names and titles that give them power, Ron reckoned; in their backyard, they’re the same as you or me. I bet that the Prime Minister gets up in the middle of the night after being backed up for a few days too...

*

He decided that he’d have a smoke while he was still awake.

He went back for his (illegal) paraphernalia. It was then that he made the fatal mistake:

Ron left the room key behind.

*

It was a peaceful smoke. Grounding. He thought he’d have some more…

Ron searched his pockets. No room key. That’s not the end of the world, he thought. The doorstop had kept the fire exit open. If he pounded on the bedroom door, his mates would probably stir from their slumber and let him back in.

Besides, his herbal medicine had got the bowels humming, and he felt a shit coming on. *

Ron reached the bathroom: the first sign of trouble. This wasn’t a regular bathroom with regular locks: it had a special lock box on the front, meaning he needed - you guessed it - the room key!

He wondered where it was; he was sure that he’d had it with him when he left the room... However, the pressing question of his bowels was far more important. *

Given how things had been going lately, he was chuffed there was any movement at all. His entire body felt like a war zone, and the troops were finally racing towards victory. Ron chose a corner and hoped that they cleaned this shithole regularly.

Yes, this is a story about incontinence. They’re not all epics with lush poetic phrases.

Having completed his military action, he surveyed the damage: a neat pile of liquid shit.

Those tacos really hadn't agreed with him...

*

The room key must be outside, he thought. That seemed logical.

He ambled outside. As he went, the wind gusted, moving the doorstop an inch or two.

That was enough to lock the door behind Ron.

He desperately attempted to rush back in, but the door was too fast for him.

*

He knocked on the door, to no avail. The elderly man was stranded in his pyjamas. He knew that there was a front entrance, but he wasn’t sure which direction to head in… (end of part one)