The Rug

On his way home from work Mr. Harris was confronted by a bearded jogger.

“Step in here a second,” said Bearded, flicking his thumb in the direction of the nearest shop front. Normally Mr. Harris would have ignored the stranger, but there was something compelling about the man’s manner.

“Mr. Harris, isn’t it?” said the Beard.

“How did you know my name?” replied Mr. Harris.

“I know everyone’s name. I also know you hate your job, are very depressed and badly need a holiday.”

“As a matter of fact you’re right,” said Mr. Harris, “but as for the holiday, I’m taking next week off.”

“ No, no, I mean a proper holiday.’ said Beardy, “all you were planning to do next week was stay here in Liverpool, lounge about and watch television.”

“Well I suppose you’re probably right,” conceded Mr. Harris, “but I can’t really afford to go anywhere special, and I haven’t got anyone to go with for that matter.”

“Well this is where I come in,” said Mysterious-beard. “You won’t need any money, and I can fix it for you to go wherever you want. The only stipulation is you must choose the place your heart most wants to go. Otherwise it’s no good.”

Mr. Harris pondered for a few moments, then told the man he’d always fancied going to Australia.

“Well if that’s what you really want, Australia it shall be! Meet me tomorrow morning at 11’o’ clock in the main car park at the Albert Dock.”

With this statement the bearded jogger disappeared completely and left Mr. Harris scratching his head, understandably very confused. He took a bus home and had a bath, and thinking over the strange matter very carefully, decided he had nothing to lose by meeting the man tomorrow.

He met the stranger on the stroke of eleven the next morning. The beard had gone and he was wearing a smart black suit.

“Hello, Mr. Harris, I knew I’d see you again. Well, we mustn’t linger. Your means of transport will be this old rug here,” he said, opening his suitcase and revealing the most moth-eaten piece of material Mr. Harris had ever seen.

“Just step on this, and within a few hours you’ll be flying over the sea and well on your way to Australia. You won’t want for money, as I promised - that will take care of itself - but remember you have to in your very heart of hearts wish to go there. If after all you really would rather stay in Liverpool, then this rug will simply take you back to Aigburth and your own flat.”

“I’d rather go to Australia for sure,” said Mr. Harris, and thanking the stranger he stepped gingerly on to the rug and within seconds was whizzing at high altitude over the River Mersey, then within minutes at he was looking down at the Irish Sea.

For an hour or so, Mr. Harris was very excited about his trip to Australia, but the solitude of the ocean soon had him thinking rather heavily. He thought about how he would have to go back to work next week, to a job he detested. He thought about how he had no wife, no good friends and not a great deal of money to show for his efforts. In fact Mr. Harris had been depressed for several years. He became so morbid that he completely forgot about Australia. The rug, of course, could only follow the directions of Mr. Harris’ heart, and a hundred or so miles off the east coast of America plummeted headlong into the Atlantic Ocean.