After lunch I always make a second cup of coffee. I use the office machine, which tastes like jet fuel, but I love the efficiency so I settle. I take the cup back to my desk, and in those thirty seconds it has cooled enough to drink. I take a few gulps. Feel my bowels move. Take a few gulps more. Sometimes the smell alone is enough to get me going.
The walk to the bathroom is usually clear. If it’s not, then I am on the lookout for anyone who looks deep in conversation, because they might be there when I come out. “Jesus, Emmett just took a twenty minute dump?” Not the kind of press I’m looking for. Luckily, the hallway is empty at this point in the afternoon and I slip in unnoticed.
My eyes immediately pick up everything I need to know. The three stalls are taken. I can tell by the way the shadows fall under each door that they are closed tightly, not just resting ajar. That leaves me with three immediate options: use a urinal and transfer to a stall, fake using a urinal and then transfer, or just wait by the sink until someone is finished. The third was never an option, not if I want to keep my dignity, and I have always shied away from the urinal transfer because of the very small possibility that somebody notices the switch. Nothing smells worse of desperation than rushing to zip up and jogging your way over to a stall before it’s taken.
Today, the choice is made for me, because the urinals are all occupied. Rush hour! No one has ID’d me yet, so I decide to turn around and head downstairs to check out their real estate. It’s only been about fifteen seconds since I walked in to the bathroom, but since nobody saw me I leave without a second thought, beeline my way to the stairwell and walk down one floor. Beware this quick in-and-out! It is painfully obvious what’s happening to any bystander who witnesses you enter in the first place, because no one goes straight to another floor, empty-handed, right after using the toilet.
Downstairs in the second bathroom, a similar scan takes place. Voila! There is an end stall open for business. I’m disappointed, because in that stall your shoes are visible to whoever is at the mirror, but I’ll accept it. My coffee is not mixing well with the hummus and edamame bowl I decided to eat for lunch, and my gurgling has grown louder.
I walk up to the stall and see why it was left empty. There is diarrhea coating the entire inside of the bowl, as if it was painted on. I would be shocked had that type of destruction been uncommon, but the sad fact is I have seen it before. Somehow all of the water drains from the toilet, leaving nothing but shredded toilet paper and human waste lining the bowl. Savages. I’m back to square one.
Luckily, I hear a flush in the middle toilet, and I back up towards the sink. Normally, a stall exchange would be completely off limits – I don’t want to lock eyes with the person whose warmth I’m going to feel on the seat – but down here I don’t know anybody, so I make an exception. I’m a little disappointed that the handicapped stall didn’t open up, since that offers the best privacy, but I can’t be selective at this point. Things are getting urgent.
I sit down and, sure enough, feel like I’m sitting on a heated car seat. On first touch it feels nice, and then I remember the look of the guy who came before me and I cringe. He seemed pretty sweaty. I push it from my mind, and am about to let loose when I hear the door open and multiple people walk in, deep in conversation. “Shit,” I think. Anything I do in the next few seconds will cut through their discussion like a hot knife through butter. I debate whether the handicap stall will provide me enough anonymity to just go for it, but I decide against it. I’m a foreigner down here, and people always blame the foreigners. I hold it in for as long as possible, when all of a sudden I hear it – a flush! – and I go all out. The water’s roar as it gushes from the pipes, that industrial symphony, is exactly what I need to do my business in private. The worst of it is over, and I sit back and relax. This is the fun part.