toilet time
It never fails that at twice a week I enter the bathroom and one of the stalls is occupied by the Phantom. I call her that because she pretends she’s not there; she sits in the farthest stall, doesn’t move or breath. I KNOW she uses that crinkly butt paper to protect her precious hienie from germs, and yet never sound erupts from that stall. Every time I know she’s there, it’s like recess for me, excruciatingly long can I make my pee. I recognize her size 15 Giant shoes, I know EXACTLY who she is. I spent weeks looking at shoes to identify her, and when I find out who she was, I did a mental endzone dance. She’s just so happens to be the high-and-mighty lady prick of the floor. Why am I not surprised high-and-mighty doesn’t want people to know she craps?
I imagine her in her little stall counting the time till I leave. Her stall doesn’t latch all the way too, (I learned that the hard way) I know if I slam one of the other stall doors, it’ll pop open. I usually accidentally on purpose slam the door a couple of times – because it’s just so damn hard to latch it. I never use crinkly butt protection tissue paper, except in case of the Phantom presence. That’s when I delicately tug it out of its little wall holder, gingerly rip the connections and tenderly smooth in onto the porcelain throne, fussing until it’s perfectly placed and properly ready for my silken toosh. I start whistling. I know it’s earsplitting and annoying, bouncing off all that ceramic tile, and I’m whistling a butchered version of Dean Martin’s Volare – I’m not a very good whistler, I’m okay with that.
My pants have two buttons, two hook and eye closures, are too big and are over a pair of tights (‘cause the temp dropped to 36 degrees here and my legs will freeze on the walk). After the process of clothing, I perch and wait. I examine my nails. I think about what I’m going to do once I get out of the John (blog). I imagine her restraint, maybe a little sweat popping up on her brow from the strain of prairie-dogging through my whole ordeal. She’s probably silently cursing me. Tinkling done, I stand. Roll up the tights, adjust for maximum comfort, pull up the slacks, re-button, re-hook. I have to roll the top of my slack over ‘cause they are too big, that is a tedious process requiring attention and time to make sure my belt loops are sticking out and my shirt lays smoothly over my jerry-rigged pants. Flush.
I always always always wish I have to take a monster poo when she’s in there. Complete with ass-ripping, grunts of relief and a stench that would make her hastily tug up her pants and rush out of the bathroom without washing her hands.
The Phantom, sensing that I’m wrapping up and will be leaving in a matter of seconds, ALWAYS starts the done-peeing routine, toilet paper, movement. My hand washing process doubles, I have to wash my hands twice, I have to scrub under the finger nails, I have to be extra gentle to paper cut on my middle finger. After inspection and confirmation that all the invisible germs that I don’t care about have been abolished by the coconut scented soap, I dry my hands. Thoroughly, not a speck of wetness, not a sign of damp. I stand right in front of her stall and primp. Front view: Damn I look good today. Side view: still looking good. Back view: nice toosh. I walk over the full length mirror, I have on great shoes (they’re pink with bows) and I want to admire. Out the door.
The Phantom is just one of the female screwballs on my office floor – in fact, every woman on the same floor as me is a screwball. Well, except the two ladies who work with me in the firm. But, I guess I’m a screwball too. I’m okay with that.
