I am sitting in the Men’s restroom at my job. I am doing what needs to be done. I am exactly where I want to be.
The place smells, of all things, and only, like feet. There is a Glamour magazine by the sink. I don’t know why. I can hear someone outside in the kitchen eating the last bagel. But I am here at exactly the right time and doing exactly what I want.
It doesn’t matter that when I go outside I’ll be in a job I don’t like, working with people whom I’d rather not know. It doesn’t matter that I’m not being paid enough. At least I’m allowed to be in here, in this bathroom, and for the next 15 minutes of my allotted break time that’s exactly where I’ll be, doing it right, getting things done.
There have been other times in my life when I knew for certain that I was completely in control of my fate and that I was driving fate like it was a greased luge. Once I knew that I had the best of all possible hot dogs at Fenway Park. And there have been other times. This (Oop) is one of those times.
The Glamour magazine does not interest me, but I am eye level with it. I look at the other eye level things in the room. The bottom of the mirror. If I sit up straight (not optimal) I can see the top of my hair. The bottom of the Choking sign. Everything is more interesting now that I am exactly where I want to be, doing exactly what needs to be done. This is so right. Oop.
Soon I will be done. That which brought me here will send me staggering away. But it’s necessary that I’ve done this, and I am very satisfied doing it. Oop. Masterful. There. I’m done. I’m tempted to leave some reminder of this contented time, but the people I work with wouldn’t understand. I certainly don’t understand when other people don’t flush. I’ll clean up and walk away.
Someone is knocking at the door. Before I can say “Occupied” (and I always say it quickly, that’s how sharp my reflexes are, sometimes inadvertently cutting the loaf in half like it’s a Chinese tactical aircraft) I see the door handle turning. “Occupied,” I say. Bathrooms with locks are important. There is always someone who will try to walk in on you without knocking or, having knocked, will not wait for you to say “Occupied” or something similar before barging in. Those people are like the people who say, “How are you? Good.”
It’s over. I will come here again, and be happy again, but now I have to go back out there. Allan, the only guy in a business office full of women, is standing there. Luckily, he has nothing to do with the processing of my check. He looks at me bitchily, jealous of my happiness. It’s his magazine on the sink. I say, “Christ, I really stunk the place up in there.”