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Al waited patiently for the person that Sam had leaped into to fully appear in the Waiting Room. Whenever they did, Al allowed them a couple of moments to get their bearings, before reassuring them that they were not dead, or had been abducted by aliens, or stepped into fairyland (a little girl from 1964 Scotland had initially believed this) or were the victims of a practical joke.
But today Al wondered if he needed an aspirin before taking charge.
When the glow had faded, Al found himself looking at a very tall, skinny man with dark brown hair and a thick moustache. As soon as the man started registering that he was somewhere different than where he had been just seconds before, he stared directly at Al, the same look of shock and horror on his face that most Leapees had.
“Oh my God, I’m dead, aren’t I?” he asked, slowly and more annoyed than anything else. Al could make out that this man was British and most likely middle-class, as they said over there.
“No,” Al held both hands out in an attempt to calm him down, “You’re just in the Waiting Room –“
“I knew it!” The man was now angry. Al wondered if he should have to call in reinforcements. “I told Manuel to get rid of that damn rat, but does he listen?” The man started to walk around the room, throwing his arms about as if he were conducting an orchestra. “That dim-witted dago finally did it! He gave me a heart attack! Well, I bet Sybil’s disappointed that she won’t have anyone to push around anymore.”
Al guessed that Sybil was perhaps the man’s wife. He made his way over to the man and asked, “And your name is?”
The Leapee ignored him, stuck in his madness. “The hotel’s busted, of course. I spent fifteen years building the place up and he goes and ruins it in one day! I wonder if Sybil will have to sell it to pay for the funeral. Not that anyone would want to buy that dump, at any rate.”
He finally seemed to notice Al. His arms folded, the man looked the American up and down. “And who are you?”
Al opened his mouth before this man could begin ranting again. “My name is Al, sir, and you’re –“
“Of course the afterlife is run by Americans,” the Leapee sneered, “Even when I’m dead I can never get any peace.” He held out one of his arms and swept it across the room, almost hitting Al in the eye. “Here lies Basil Fawlty, Torquay hotel owner, long-suffering husband and still dealing with riff-raff in the Beyond.”
“Basil Fawlty?” Al asked.
The man looked as if he wanted to slap Al. “Yes!” he leaned over, arms folded, staring Al straight in the eye, “Don’t you do anything right up here? The least you can do is remember the name of the recently departed!”
Then he stood up again, sighing. “I thought I would see any deceased people I knew in life. Is Sybil’s mother up here? Or has she gone down below? Unless...this is below? Because if she has then I’m very pleased about the service.”
“Mr Fawlty,” Al didn’t even bother showing him the handlink, “You are not dead.”
Basil paused for a second. Then he asked, a little bit scared, “This isn’t the loony bin, is it? Oh, of course it is! I can tell by the way you’re dressed!”
Al looked down at his pink suit, dark green imitation crocodile shoes and black tie with a yellow zig-zag pattern and yellow spots and glared back at Basil.
“You are not in an asylum, Mr Fawlty,” Al held out a hand to try and manoeuvre Basil toward the table.
“Get your hands off me!” Basil shouted. Then he started calling, “Guard! Guard!”
But when he saw Sam Beckett’s face in the reflection below, Basil Fawlty fainted again.
The Leapee was probably one of the most annoying people that Al had the displeasure to meet.
Sam was currently in 1979, trying to fix up a British hotel that was about to be closed down for failing a health inspection. So far, Sam had managed to be far more polite and logical than unfortunate Basil, which was making his wife suspicious. Ziggy said that there was currently a 96.7% chance that the hotel would get back on its feet, but that Sybil Fawlty now held Basil to higher expectations.
"Is your friend doing anything reasonable?" The Leapee asked, lying down on the table, looking up at the ceiling with the upmost despair, "I have a reputation to uphold, to appear as if I am in charge -"
"Are you in charge?" Al asked, "I thought it was a joint operation."
Basil snorted. "She just sits around all day. 'Basil this' and 'Basil that'; I want to actually sit for five minutes without being told to do something that one of the guests has messed up. That or trying to tell Manuel that ordering something on the phone in Spanish is absurd because we live in Britain, not in Madrid!"
Al could see that he wasn't going to get anywhere with Mr Fawlty's moaning. He had more luck trying to get anything useful from a broken Ziggy.
Then Basil let out a loud, exhausted groan. "This is - the best rest I have had in my entire married life."
Al dreaded what would happen to Basil when he went back.
Sam had finally managed to convince the health inspector that Fawlty Towers was normally in peak condition. It was simply the fault of a misunderstanding between a Spanish waiter and the rest of the staff.
Fawlty Towers had been slapped with a heavy fine, but had been allowed to stay open, with one final warning.
As Al left Sam to relay the good news to Basil, he found the man smiling for the first time since he had arrived.
"Thank goodness for small mercies."
When Al came back to tell Sam that Ziggy had found out that Fawlty Towers would still be open in the present day, with the same staff members (as well as a stable marriage between Basil and Sybil), he took a good look at the building.
Hopefully Basil would, if he remembered anything, run the quaint, British hotel with pleasure.