Mike Berlin

A Penny Saved

Mike Berlin

(March/April 2014)

Eugene Rodney Woodsbury was pleased with himself. Quite pleased indeed.

Tired after his four and a half hour flight from London's Heathrow airport, Eugene was relieved to finally check into his three-star B&B in Larnaca. Along with over a million of his countrymen annually, he came to Cyprus on a holy quest for two commodities sorely lacking in his beloved England: The soothing, bone-warming rays of the Mediterranean sun and glorious golden beaches.

There were of course additional reasons for choosing Cyprus as a holiday destination – and one of them was the price. Pound for euro, you got more for your money than you would at the French Riviera, Malta or Greece.

For our Eugene, the monetary considerations far outweighed all other factors. He explained his choice to his co-workers—Eugene didn't have any actual friends—in a different manner. Cyprus, as a former colony of the crown was preferable and much more suitable than say Miami (“Americans are such barbarians”) or Cote d'Azur (“bloody French”). At least in Cyprus they drove on the proper side of the road!

Truth be told, Eugene chose his holiday destination largely by the price. Simply put, Eugene was stingy. He was a tightwad, a penny-pincher, a miser. It wasn't that he didn't have money to spend… he just hated parting with it.

So here he was. Pale-skinned and knobby-kneed, our watery-eyed Englishman braved over-friendly Greek-Cypriots and deep-fried foods in a strange land, armed with sun screen # 15 and an inherited stiff-upper-lip.

Eugene sat alone at breakfast in the small, yet sunny, dining room of his three-star hotel. Remnants of runny eggs, bangers and beans and toast lay on the plate before him. Although the breakfast was less than impressive, Eugene smiled to himself as he sipped his tepid coffee, giddy over the five or six euro he had “saved” by eating breakfast twice.

He had been prepared for the usual hotel breakfast routine: An elderly matron named Marge, or the Greek equivalent thereof, would ask for his name and room number, then check the list of guests on her food-stained clipboard before allowing him access.

To Eugene's astonishment, no matron or any other staff member guarded the entrance. Not quite believing his luck, he looked surreptitiously around whilst stealing unnoticed up to the breakfast buffet. His excitement rose with each helping of food he plopped onto his plate. Certain this was too good to be true, he ate his meal quickly, positive that at any moment he would be confronted, and possibly admonished, for not following hotel-breakfast protocol.

It never happened. As his plate emptied, his eyes kept a continuous surveillance on his fellow hotel guests arriving for breakfast. He couldn't believe it. None of them were asked to identify themselves, in any manner, as residents of the hotel!

Glancing at his watch, a plan formulated in his miserly mind. Dabbing his mouth genteelly with a cheap paper napkin, Eugene rose languidly from his chair and strolled towards the lifts and his pool-view room.

Once inside he acted decisively. He didn't have much time – breakfast was served from 7.00 till 10.00, and it was nearly nine now. Eugene exchanged his trousers and loafers for shorts and sandals, traded his button-down shirt for an old tee-shirt, and combed his thinning hair forward to cover his balding pate.

Thus disguised, he strode into the breakfast-room, attacked the buffet with an unaccustomed gusto and devoured a second mediocre breakfast.

He couldn't stop smiling. Despite the slight discomfort of an over-stuffed belly, Eugene felt more than satisfied – he was euphoric.

To Eugene's peculiar way of thinking, each free meal was money saved. He figured breakfast in a restaurant would cost him five or six euros at least. That was the reason he insisted on B&B – free breakfasts. Today he had saved twice as much – and it was worth a minor case of indigestion.

Eugene spent the better part of his day at the pool, attaining a lobster-red 'tan' and formulating a scheme to eat three breakfasts the following day. He was unaware of the darling shrieks of the children, splashing and frolicking before returning to the loving arms of their mothers, who wrapped them like sausages with Sponge-Bob towels. Nor did he notice the bikini-clad nymphs strolling to the pool's bar, looking oh-so-good. He was oblivious to it all. As his plan took shape, little euro signs danced before his eyes like sugar-plum fairies. By the time he was thoroughly cooked and ready for his afternoon siesta, his stratagem was complete.

Anyone watching Eugene the following morning would admit he implemented his plan to perfection. His meticulous timing was flawless and the execution eloquent. But no one noticed his subterfuge. Hotel staff and guests went about their business, totally unaware of Eugene's machinations.

Halfway through his second breakfast, the tune from 'Mission Impossible' started playing compulsively in his head. Tum tum tumtum, tum tum tumtum – tatadah, tatadahhh, tatum!

Three-quarters of the way through his third breakfast, Mission Impossible was replaced by the Alka-Seltzer song. Eugene struggled to down two more rashers of soggy, undercooked bacon and half a bowl of Greek Yogurt with muesli. His back teeth were floating from 12 cups of tea, and regurgitation was looking like a viable option. Only the vision of euros flushing down the loo strengthened his resolve, and with the prowess of a pregnant hippo, he scoffed down the remaining tidbits.

Eugene pushed to his feet, and staggered towards the creaky elevator, hoping to reach his room before he embarrassed himself by discharging bodily fluids in public. With Herculean effort, our Englishman ran the last few steps to his room, and flew into the bathroom. Relieving himself was, well, a relief.

Eugene spent the next hour and a half recuperating from breakfast. Towards noon he meandered down to the sea, and spread his novelty “I Love Cyprus” towel over golden grains of sand, beneath a beach umbrella.

Lethargic from his enormous breakfasts, Eugene drifted off into a fitful sleep peppered with dreams of svelte Swedes and swarthy Cypriots who inexplicably turned into beached whales, after ingesting vast quantities of food and drink at a seaside smorgasbord.

Eugene needed no psychoanalyst to interpret his dream. He faced a serious dilemma: How could he eat three or more breakfasts, and still function—let alone enjoy—the rest of the day? He was, after all, on holiday. The obvious answer would be to eat just one breakfast, like everybody else… or have multiple breakfasts, but eat less food at each breakfast.

Eugene found both of these solutions unpalatable. Eating smaller quantities of food seemed pointless. If he didn't get a full meal for his money, he would only be cheating himself. Eat only one breakfast? Ridiculous! He would not forfeit this golden opportunity due to limited abdominal capacity or queasy uneasiness.

Through the late afternoon and well into early evening, Eugene pondered his predicament, at last coming to a solution around dinner time.

I shan't go into details, so as not to offend your sensibilities. Suffice it to say Eugene concocted a ploy so conniving and convoluted it was nothing short of Machiavellian. It included disguises, minimal fluid intake, early-bird-breakfasts and laxatives.

On the last day of his stay, Eugene surprised even himself by eating no less than five breakfasts. Five full breakfasts: Scrambled eggs, bacon, toast with marmalade, Pita bread with local Haloumi cheese, black olives, bangers and beans, Greek yogurt, fresh fruit and a bowl of cereal.

Bloated like a Nigerian Balloon frog, Eugene was ecstatic. He had done it. Five full breakfasts, thirty euro in his pocket! He was barely able to stand. Gaseous emissions refluxing from his boiler-pot belly caused heartburn never before known to him. A wave of nausea threatened as he approached the front desk.

“I'd like to check out please, room 301,” he managed to rasp.

“Yes, Mr. Woodsbury, here is your bill.”

“My bill? I prepaid... you should have my hotel voucher.”

“Let me see…” said the man at the reception desk. “It seems you owe the hotel ninety-six euro.”

“Ninety-six euro! Are you crazy? For what?”

“It seems sir, that in addition to the five breakfasts included in your Bed and Breakfast deal, you consumed another twelve breakfasts, costing eight euros each.”

The color drained from Eugene's face, and he would have had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach had it not been so overflowing with semi-digested food. The shock of being discovered hit him like a tsunami and he staggered back from the reception desk, dizzy and disoriented.

In the end, he did the only thing a gentleman could do in such a circumstance. He had a coronary seizure.

The pressure, the fried calamari and chips and nearly a ton and a half of food in five days, all took their toll. Eugene was rushed to the Larnaca General Hospital, and admitted to the cardiology ward.

The next morning Eugene felt much better. The rhinoceros that had been sitting on his chest had gone off to greener pastures, and no food for almost twenty-four hours did marvels for that bloated sensation.

Yes, things were looking up. The hotel sent his belongings to the hospital, along with a receipt. The management was kind enough to settle his bill, with their compliments. Nor was he worried about the hospital's fee – it would be covered by his travel insurance. So all in all, aside from the minor inconvenience of having a heart-attack, everything was super. He actually gained a few more days of holiday for free!

His musings were interrupted by the nurse's aide wheeling the lunch trolley into the room opposite him. Eugene had already eaten the diluted, salt-free broth, and the boiled chicken with vegetables. Making sure no one was watching, Eugene slipped his lunch tray under the bed.

“Miss, excuse me, miss?”

The aide stood just outside the door. “Yes? What I can help you with?”

“I didn't get any lunch…”

The aide smiled warmly and set a full tray down next to him. Without a second glance she swished out of the room.

Eugene Rodney Woodsbury was pleased with himself. Quite pleased indeed.