Oh Crap!

February 17, 2010 at 12:06 pm (Uncategorized)

.

Some people have bad days, some have bad moments, some have bad hair. On this particularly fine day, my hair was not the problem.

It began just as a grueling two hour meeting ended. Finally able to get out of the institutionalized torture session, I had another urgent appointment, something much more personal to attend to. I found myself navigating the labyrinthine hallways of the office building where I work with reckless abandon, slight abdominal cramps forecasting that I was about to have a most unpleasant experience.

I wasn’t on my normal floor, the meeting having been held in a remote conference room on the far end of the building, a very large government monolith with endless corridors all painted the same shade of oyster white. All the restrooms in this building were generally identical – spacious, regularly cleaned, well lit, and only visited by other professionals. This therefore minimized the chances of the gas station feel, where you even dread what’s touching the soles of your shoes. No, this should have been as uneventful a bathroom visit as possible, zip in, perform your task, zip out, then quickly forgotten along with what I had for breakfast that morning and the cretin who cut me off on Route 29 driving in to work.

I approached the restroom with determined steps that an outside observer would describe as purposeful and focused, and someone in the know would label as one degree shy of a pee dance sprint. The restrooms in this building were always located next to a water fountain. So sighting same, I hurried up to the first door looking for the sign with the stick figure with pants not skirt, but unable to locate it quickly amid all the taped flu pandemic warnings and other motivational posters, knew that the mens rooms were always to the right of the fountain. I swung the door open in quite the rush, walking hurriedly through a small anterior room and on to a second doorway.

I never really understood the purpose of this small room between the hallway and the restroom proper other than to house the two large trashcans that sat by the door. Maybe it had a privacy function – no one could sneak peeks at people washing their hands. Perhaps in the last millennium it was a smoking foyer, or in the previous one a place where you could get your shoes shined. And why the two huge trashcans? One had to be big enough to house all the paper towels bunched up inside into neat little snowball sized wads. Whatever. The first door swung shut behind me as I pulled open the second, ready to barge right into the main restroom.

The doors themselves were solid, wooden oak, or ash, or some hardwood. I don’t know. They definitely weren’t pine. Why was I bothering to think about wooden composition when all I sought was the porcelain throne? Well sometimes when you pull on the handle, someone on the other side is pushing simultaneously. It makes for an awkward moment as the two of you fight for control of the heavy wooden door. I always think of the fall back/spring forward analogy, though this is literal and has nothing to do with daylight savings time. You make short eye contact with your dance partner, whisper apologies, grunt and then continue each in your own right of way to your purpose. But the restroom was empty and I was relieved to have no such encounter. I preferred to be solo in the bathroom, since the sounds I would soon make would be very rude.

I stood in the main area, in front of the row of sinks, and was all business as I picked out the last stall where the door was slightly ajar and headed toward it. Rule number 1of Men’s Room etiquette: go to the- what the… I then realized the one next to it was occupied. Two tiny shoe tips just barely visible under the shut door peeked out like two alligator eyes.

Damn. Rule number 2 of Men’s Room etiquette is you never, ever sit in a stall next to someone when there are other stalls with no neighbors available. I scanned back and centered on three free ones, doors ajar, and headed for the center one of the group. Pushing the door open to the stall with a slight bit of urgency, my stomach was beginning to rumble with added discomfort. I stepped in and quickly gave the stall the standard gross out check down.

Basin flushed? Check. No traceable amounts of yellow liquid on the seat? Check. No wiry black hairs? Check. The floor where my pants would drop adequately dry? Check. I closed the door and slid the lock into place. Door securely locked? Check. Pre-flight complete, we were ready for liftoff.

The stall had one of those disposable seat cover dispensers, but I only used them if there were no other clean stalls available and the seat was suspect. This looked clean. I ignored the dispenser and did a one-eighty, and unhooked my belt facing the door to the stall. Some graffiti was inked in on the back. I’d read it later since my body began having small convulsions. I had to hurry.

I noticed that the Style section of today’s newspaper sat folded on the large toilet paper dispenser. Score! Thank-you gracious gentleman whoever you were for kindly leaving something to take my mind off the task at hand. Would have preferred the Sports section, but the Comics were in here. Good reading. I dropped my pants, boxers, and sat down on the seat. Umm, it was unnaturally warm. Still emanating residual body heat from the previous occupant, I surmised. Ok, I couldn’t have everything, but so far so good.

I have no intent to gross you out gentle reader, so let’s just say the next 15 seconds were a mixture of relief, pressurized pain, physics lessons in gaseous displacement, grimaces, rude noises, more rude noises, and an olfactory assault. You know it’s bad when your own stuff is offensive to you. God, I swore to myself, no more leftover taco salads for breakfast ever again. Oh good, my memory was returning. The most pleasant part was the rush of relief, as cramps dissipated and my abdominal cavity no longer thrummed.

Just then I heard the main door open and several hard soled shoes tap their way in. Great timing. The worst offensive part was over, though the gentleman in the stall three down had heard it all, but he had probably done the same a few minutes earlier before my entry, so it was all good. Sorry dude, but I think he understood. Brothers in arms.

I opened up the paper and flipped back to the Comics section. Dilbert and Hagar soon began to entertain me. Pearls Before Swine was a good one today, and I scanned them all, skipping the crappy ones and smirking at anything even remotely funny.

“Where you going for lunch?” I heard a voice say.

“I’m just going to get a salad upstairs in the cafeteria. You?”

“I brought a Weight Watchers entrée. Microwave and I should be good. I have got to lose five pounds.”

I froze. Those voices were awfully high pitched. Very high. What the f-? Were they cleaning ladies? Most were Hispanic around here and would normally speak Spanish. Besides they usually knock before they come in to clean, allowing all the men to exit first.

I never do this in a bathroom, but I squinted through the crack of the door in an attempt to see outside my stall. But the door was a fairly tight fit, couldn’t make out anything. So then I contorted myself and lowered my chest to my knees and rolled my head downward, trying not to get a serious neck sprain. I was breaking all kinds of rules of Men’s Room etiquette, but I had to check. All I could see were shoes. Wait… heels. Oh crap.

I sat up, slamming my shoulder into the toilet paper dispenser and almost yelped out in my baritone voice. A serious application of lip bite prevented that. Now I began to slightly panic. Did I go into the wrong bathroom? Did I clearly see the sign on the side, the international stick figure with two legs not skirt? No, I didn’t see one. But wait, normally the men’s rooms were to the right of the water fountain, but… weren’t there a few at the other end of the building that… and I was on the other end of the building. Damn.

“What’s Jennifer doing for lunch?” one asked.

“Oh she’s freaking out over her husband. He has to pick up the kids from daycare today because she has that four o’clock and you know how men are, he’s totally clueless and she has to plan out his every step and move for him. She’s has to play GPS for him.”

The other woman chuckled.

“Oh, Natasha, I love those boots. They are so sexy!”

“Thank-you. I love them too. Can you believe I got them at Filene’s Basement?”

“No! I never find anything there I like. You were so lucky.”

“I know!”

Suddenly I realized my shoes were quite visible, so I rearranged my pants to cover them. But my boxers were showing, and could they see my hairy legs above my socks? So I pulled my pants up to my knees as well as the boxers, leaving some extra pant leg to drape over my shoes. But would my pants look like female suit pants? God, this was going to be awkward.

More women came in, and now I was starting to really panic. How the hell would I get out of this one? But then I reconsidered, and realized I was safe as long as I stayed quarantined in here. Obviously my only recourse was to wait until everyone left. But this was the beginning of the lunch hour, and this could take a long time. What a way to spend my lunch hour.

To the right and left of me, I heard the sounds of women entering stalls, including the two on each side of mine. I could see their feet walking around, hear the sound of paper being pulled out of the toilet seat cover dispenser. Then I heard a voice that chilled my blood – Mada Richardson, the attorney from Legal who always tore into our proposals. She was talking about my meeting!

“Did you see Bob squirm when I told him the quarterly numbers were an embarrassment?”

“He’s a prick. He deserved it. Did you hear he filed for a divorce from his wife? Twenty-three years, the bastard.”

“Really?” Mada replied. “Well, I think his budget is going to get even a bigger going over now. I’m going to demand projections for the next three quarters. That will chill any hot affairs he’s got going.” They both laughed.

“Plus he stinks, really bad BO,” the second woman commented. “Doesn’t know what deodorant is if you ask me.”

Then he heard Mada whisper, “Something died in here too,” followed by muted chuckles.

Oh crap! I turned to the back of my seat and reached down to the foot pedal. Pushing it tightly, a loud roar of a flush erupted. My rear end was gently bathed with spray. I really didn’t care, I had to get rid of the source.

I could hear Mada leaving with her companion as their conversation trailed away, but now more women entered. My hearing senses were now sharply attuned to the clack clack clack of stilettos and pumps. I sat there patiently waiting, no stomach for the comics or any other section of the paper. I did read the graffiti, faded from countless attempts to wipe it off. – If you tinkle and you sprinkle be a sweetie wipe the seatie. Cute. Killing for peace is like fucking for chastity. OK, that was deep. A kiss is two questions answered at once. That was beyond me. Bob Smothers is an asshole. Wow, Bob sure had a reputation.

I began to plan my escape. Even if the place was empty, what if I ran into someone on the way in? Other stalls flushed and the activity continued. My rear end was getting sore now. I had even overextended my own typically long stay.

I suppose there are some places with Ally McBeal unisex washrooms, but this building wasn’t one of them. These were conservative professionals in a government building, the stereotypical halls of power, who stuck to serious one-upmanship role playing. And I would face serious embarrassment and be the butt of gossip everlasting (no pun intended), perhaps even displacing Bob. I even belatedly realized that as I walked in, I hadn’t seen the row of urinals, just a lot of stalls. But, I guess under the circumstances I wasn’t paying particular attention.

I decided to do the paperwork and prepare my escape. But more foot traffic entered and left. Men would never sit in stalls side by side if there were empty ones elsewhere, but not women. I guess they didn’t have the same hangups as men. The other curiosity was watching the occasional strange foot placement – at the side of the toilet. I couldn’t understand how they were placing their feet to sit. And then it occurred to me. They weren’t sitting, they were crouching! The imagined visual did scar me. This entire scenario was not like a middle schooler’s dream of peaking into the girls showers. This was just plain uncomfortable, at best an interesting social learning lesson, but ultimately too gross for me, and I really just wanted to escape.

Finally the place seemed to clear out, though a peek under revealed that there still appeared to be one woman at a sink, just standing there. But no sound of running water. What was she doing? Then it hit me, c’mon, what do all women do? Makeup, or lipstick, or whatever cosmetic applications it was women do. But they sure do take a long time doing it. Men were so much more efficient with their time. Walk up to the sink, turn on the water, quick rinse of the finger tips, dry and exit. And if no one else was in the washroom, skip even that. No wonder there were always such long lines into womens rooms.

Finally this last one left and I heard the door close. I now got up off my seat and pulled my pants up. Next I crouched down on my knees again and peeked under in all directions. The coast was clear. I got up and was just about to unlatch the door, when I heard the main door open again. Damn! I sat back down again, quickly dropping my pants over my shoes.

The woman walked into the stall right next to mine! What the- Ok, you’re not a man, but… crap. I just waited.

Needless to say, she took forever. First she circled the toilet stall. I think she took a sweater off or something. Or she was rearranging her bra. I don’t know. I was letting my imagination run. Then I heard the swoosh and crinkle of the toilet seat cover being pulled out, placed. She walked around some more. Finally she sat down.

Then there was silence. I don’t know why I was listening so intently, but, well, I was.

Time passed.

Then I heard the tiny little fart. A cute little squeal. I wanted to laugh but again bit my lip.

Then, finally, a quiet little tinkle. A short one.

That was it?

“Oh crap,” I heard her mutter. She reached down for her purse (I saw the bottom disappear).

After a rustling noise, her voice again, “Excuse me, but there’s no toilet paper here and I’m out of Kleenex. Could you pass me some?”

I could have died. I looked at my dispenser and it was one of those huge double rolls. Why would hers be empty?

“Um hmm,” I replied in a fake, falsetto murmur. I pulled out a little paper and went to tear it off, and then thought, no, they use a LOT of paper. So I reeled off what would have been 30 sheets worth, though this stuff was unperforated. I tore it off and then rolled it up into an oblong roll and handed it to her under the side wall, careful not to let her see my fingers.

“Thank-you so much.”

“Sure,” I answered in a fake voice. I just wanted to die.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but could I have some more? Two more bunches like the last one?”

I was in disbelief. What the hell for? You peed maybe two milliliters? Just shake your ass and you should be good to go. I pulled out more paper, then handed her one bunch at a time. She took them and then stood up. Again she moved around. What was she doing? And then I thought, no… do they really?

“These underwires are killing me, if you know what I mean.”

“Um hmm,” I answered. Confirmation received.

Finally I heard her flush the toilet and grab her purse and walk out to the sink. After the requisite two minutes at the mirror, she began to leave, but not before calling out to me, “Thanks again.”

“No problem,” I squeaked.

Finally. Empty. I think. I didn’t trust myself, and again pulled up my pants and crouched down. I checked toward the sinks and then the stalls in each direction. Beside the toilet bowl of the other stall (not paper lady) was what appeared to be a discarded tampon dispenser. Unh, bad visual. Bad, bad. I did not need to see that. I had to get out of here.

I stood up and slid the bar, unlatching the door. I looked again, and strained to listen if there was any sound of anyone entering the first foyer. If I did then the plan was that I would dive into a stall. I looked to my right almost out of habit and then stopped myself – oh screw the sinks, I was heading out of here, baby. Straight for the door and exit stage left.

I practically ran to the first door and pushed it forward. As I slipped through the foyer and began to push the second door, disaster struck. A tall, young woman with blond hair and wearing a plaid vest over a periwinkle blue blouse was pulling at the same time. We practically stumbled into each other. Trying to deflect a collision, I barged into the one trash can that then bounced the other. That was the purpose, for playing dominoes. She had a stunned look on her face and stared at me with shock.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry,” she uttered, “I thought this was the womens room. I am so sorry,”

I just stared at her wide mouthed and couldn’t think of anything to say as I straightened the trash can, and saw all the pink wrappers inside. Good, she couldn’t see from her angle. She finally broke eye contact with me and turned away, walked back out the door with head down, past the water fountain toward the other door.

“God, that would have been so embarrassing,” she said with a nervous laugh as she entered the foyer of the other room. I looked up. Oh, there they were, the signs. They were white on grey and hard to see and placed higher than usual amid all of the other taped up signs and memos. And now she was about to have a totally unpleasant experience courtesy of me. A kind of continuing domino effect.

I practically ran down the hallway to the next corridor and out of sight. Thank-god I wasn’t wearing heels.

***