A Man of Action (or TMI)

Fact:

Within three hours of consuming my first cup o' joe, a bowel movement is guaranteed.

Every coffee drinker knows, a mug in the a.m. means a sojourn in the loo awaits. Wanna know something else? You’ll look forward to it. I know I do. There are few pleasures in life greater than a nice, not too soft, not too hard, a little dab at the end’ll do ya, BM. A few sentences in and I’ve lost some of you already, but isn’t this completely natural? Books have been written to remind our children that the experience binds us all – the aptly named and wonderfully literal story about how all animals defecate, Everyone Poops, comes immediately to mind. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It's a common everyday (ideally) occurrence for each of us.

Anyway…

One night recently, slumber, that fickle son of a bitch, was being particularly evasive. I woke up at 2:00, tossed and turned for a couple hours, gave up at 3:45, laid there 15 minutes cursing the world, then dragged myself out of bed at 4:00. I Keurigged my first cup of coffee at 4:01. I knew my daily routine would be thrown off, but so what if things got moving earlier than expected. In our modern world, a somewhat clean restroom is always near. I finished the coffee, got dressed, and headed to an all-night coffee shop. I read for a little while over a second delightful brew and headed into the office at about 6:30. I had been working 30 minutes or so when the urge hit. I grabbed the book I had been reading (The Brothers Karamazov, for all you book geeks), meaning to take it with me. This is what I do at home. Why not here? It’s early anyway, no one else is in the office yet. Eh. I reconsidered and dropped the book back on my desk. But I do wash my hands. I picked it up again and stared at it a few seconds before begrudgingly placing it once more on my desktop. I turned to walk away.

Maybe next time.

I moseyed through the quiet halls, the new pop song I hated but was whistling anyway echoing off the what-must-have-been-carefully-chosen-to-allow-for-a-peaceful-and-encouraging-work-environment periwinkle blue walls. I arrived and entered, the timed lights clicking on to signal they had witnessed my entry. (Swanky. My company had gone green even in the bathroom.) The soft white light welcomed me. The shiny clean tile and orange scent of industrial strength cleaner (could not have been green) invited me to come in and stay a while, to relish being the first to use the facilities that day. I was honored to do so. I headed for the spacious confines of the handicapped stall, shut myself in, and got down to business.

To my surprise, the bathroom door swooshed open. A co-worker (to this day I’m not sure who this was) entered and made his way to the handicapped stall. He realized it was occupied (Ha!) and swivelled around, locating his second best option. (Advice–always have a second option.)

So there we were, each of us quietly going about our business, respectful of the other’s right to privacy. It was an altogether pleasant experience. There were scents and smells that accompanied his work, sure, but nothing too egregious. I was appreciative. I’d like to think I extended him the same courtesy. Then, about ten minutes in, it happened.

Those lights I had been impressed by earlier clicked off. I became angry that the company was going green. How dare they! The silence, like the sudden dark, was complete. Not a word was spoken. It makes sense now to have said something, or to have at least chuckled at out predicament–you know, to break the ice. But that didn’t happen. I think we were both too terrified. He was thinking the same thing I was. What do we do now?

There were only four possible solutions, one in particular that neither of us wanted any part of. I pushed that one immediately aside, and considered the others.

I could launch a roll of toilet paper toward the sensor and hope it triggered the lights. I looked at the ultra sized toilet paper roll. If there was one out there that could do the trick, it was this one. It bore a close resemblance to a wound up fireman’s hose. I slid the “this side of the dispenser has run out of paper” access door over to make sure there was a second roll. Of course not. I could throw something else–a shoe perhaps. Who was I kidding? The sensor only worries itself with human-sized objects. I could launch the roll at the switch, hoping for a miracle. But that was too risky. I did file the idea away as a last-resort option though.

On to option two...

I could give it a few minutes to see if my eyes would adjust and allow me to finish up in the semi-dark. I waited. My sight got no better. You had to walk through two doors to get into the room, and the privacy they afforded was luxurious, but they allowed no light from outside world. I was, in effect, in a cave miles below the surface of the earth. I almost reached for the toilet paper anyway, but thought better of it. Too many things could go wrong. (In retrospect, I’m not sure why I didn’t choose this alternative. It was probably the wisest solution. But I don’t always choose the wisest solution.)

The third option, and the one we both apparently decided upon, was to wait and hope that someone else would enter and trigger the sensor. A savior would most certainly come, but when? It was ~7:12 am. He could step in any minute, but there was a very real possibility that it would be 8:00 before someone rescued us. We waited. The time ticked by. It felt like hours passed. No one came.

Sometime during this silence, it occurred to me that, had I actually brought my book, I could have ripped out a page or two of those unnecessary blank pages in the back and finished up with those. Though they might have been scratchy and jagged-edged irritant, they certainly would have sufficed. I smiled at my resourcefulness. Then I considered the possibility of a paper cut, and immediately struck the idea from memory.

After about 10 minutes, I decided to rethink things.

I, again, considered my previous options and, again, convinced myself they wouldn’t work. I thought of asking my cohort if he had any bright ideas, but decided this would be a breach of etiquette. If he had one, I assumed he would have given it a shot. He was, no doubt, scrambling for a solution, but, ultimately, sat there useless and defeated, just like me. It became inevitable. One of us had to do the unthinkable. I consider myself a man of action, a man willing to do what must be done in the direst of circumstances. I closed my eyes and walked myself through the process, step by step. I didn’t want to mess this up. When I was confident I had it down, I opened my eyes (not that it mattered). I breathed deeply, swallowed my pride, and began.

First, I grabbed some toilet paper and used it exactly how it was intended. I was thankful this was a “little dab’ll do ya” trip and not a splatterfest (which would have surely changed my decision). This was to properly prepare me for step two–standing up. I stood gingerly, just in case, since step one had not been exactly thorough. Then I pulled up my boxers, careful to not let them cling too tightly to my bum, just in case. (Actually, most of what I did over the next two paragraphs was done extremely carefully, just so you're aware.) I grabbed my belt and cinched my pants around my waist. I didn’t realize it until I tried to take that first step, but my feet were asleep. Having no desire to risk collapse, I waited another minute for the blood to re-circulate through my legs, then tried again. I waddled over to the side of the stall and threw my hand up over the top, waving it around in desperation. Nothing. I waved more vehemently. Still nothing. When I stopped I was gasping for breath. My cohort was silent, but must have wondered what was going on on the other side of the wall. I didn’t care. I cinched things up again and shimmied over to the stall door. It was closer to the sensor, but guess what? My closer range waving made not a difference.

It was time to take things a bit further. I unlatched the plastic door and moved it back and forth, like I was trying to rid my stall of a particularly offensive odor. The breeze I created was nice, but the light sensor took no notice. That’s when I knew all hope was lost. I would have to resort to the last possible option. I squeezed my belt tighter, and swung the door open. I waddled slowly (just in case) out of the privacy of my stall and shuffled toward the sinks. Nothing! The sensor was somehow laughing at me, mocking me. I could... sense... it. I waved my arm again. Nothing! Ahhh! I wanted to cry. I fought back tears.

The indignity of the situation reached its boiling point. Decorum no longer mattered. Good sense was tossed away. Consequences were damned. I ran at the sensor, both hands waving maniacally. Somehow, I managed to control the urge to scream. My belt buckle clanged to the floor as the light burst forth in a brilliant spectacle. That was it. For all the build-up, the end felt terribly anticlimactic. It’s like all the sensor wanted was for my pants to drop. When they did, it was satisfied.

I stopped and stared at it, its little HAL-like eye staring back lifelessly. I had sacrificed much, but I had won. (Hadn’t I?) I gathered my wits and my belt and pants, and hurried back to my stall. I shut the door and returned to the business I had started long before.

My quiet neighbor nonchalantly pulled some paper from his dispenser. I had nearly forgotten about him. Seconds later, his toilet flushed. He exited the stall, washed his hands, and walked out of the room without properly thanking me. That’s okay. He knows I got him out of a jam. Not sure if he actually saw my face, but he knows he was the lesser man that day. I know the truth. Alone, I laughed.

As a final insult, the toilet spritzed my undercarriage with cold water as it flushed. I guess the bathroom thought it would have the last laugh. I thought it would, too, but as I was drying my hands a very large sweaty man hurried into the room. He meant business. I believe he had an emergency situation on his hands. I’m not sure. I didn’t stick around to find out. You see, sensor, I can leave the room. I smiled up at it again and winked as I walked out the door, what was occurring on the other side no longer any of my concern. I had, quite literally, washed my hands of it. I even stopped for another cup of coffee on the way back to my desk. I wasn’t scared.