I’ve waited as long as I can, but the taco salad from lunch and the fried chicken from last night are an unforgiving lot. When it’s time, it’s time—and it’s time.
I sigh, bury my pride, and begin the trek toward the office ladies’ room. I walk slowly, glancing all around, trying to be nonchalant when I am really casing the perimeter for potential interlopers. It may be a public space, but I need it to be private right now. It’s my turn to mark the territory.
I approach the desks of the guys who are stationed near the door of the women’s room. I don’t make eye contact—neither do they. Everyone pretends we are not here, that this is not going on. I try not to think about the two trips I’ve already made here today—to pee and to primp—not that long ago. The guys play along. We don’t dwell on those types of thoughts here—it’s a tacit agreement we all have … sure, we all do it, but we don’t talk about it.
Like a runway model, I make one last right-left-right head turn before opening the gates to hell: the Tartarus of the twin toilets.
Why this is considered a public restroom is beyond me. There are two stalls, one is regular, the other is handicapped sized. A real public bathroom is busy—multiple stalls, hand blowers, chatting women, maybe a cleaning lady restocking toilet paper. In this bathroom, it’s so quiet, you can hear a … well, you can hear anything that might drop.
Because of the cramped quarters, there is skill and precision involved in this procedure. The point is to get in and out as fast as possible, period. The faster your transaction, the less likelihood of intruders.
Fuck the seat cover—there’s no time. Unless you have an open sore on your butt and the seat is covered with someone else’s donation, risk it; the seat cover wastes precious time. We are talking Olympic trial qualification times here—it’s poo or die.
Hopefully, you did not come too early. Hopefully you waited until you were nearly hunched over with cramps and the little sucker is practically on its way out. You aren’t at home with the copy of Vogue. Every second that ticks off the clock brings with it the possibility of her. You know who—the doesn’t-get-the-hint-and-leave girl.
