She could have rotted in that stall, but for me.
When I entered the restroom, the lights flickered on. I hardly noticed; the motion sensors on campus spoiled me. I didn’t have to think about turning lights on or off anymore.
The restroom was for faculty, and there were only two stalls. The first stall was occupied, so I automatically chose the other. I dropped my pants and sat down on the toilet to do my business.
Suddenly conscious of the person next to me, my restroom insecurities kicked in. Would she flush soon, freeing me from fear of making any suggestive noises? As if she’s listening, I thought.
Then I realized: Wait, there’s a person in the next stall, but the lights were off when I came in here. Weird. You had to sit pretty still quite a while for the lights to turn off, I imagined. Was she napping — in a toilet stall?
No, that’s silly, I thought. Maybe she’s just hiding. I had hidden in a restroom many times. Whenever a boss made me cry, I fled to the privacy of the bathroom. I did the same when I needed a moment to collect myself, to perk up, to steady my nerves. I had developed a relationship with every bathroom I knew as an employee and, in even younger years, as a student.
That had to be it, I concluded. She was hiding from someone or something.
I finished my business, flushed, and hiked up my pants. Then, as if she could have missed my presence, I cleared my throat and listened for a reaction.
Nothing. Not a sound came from the next stall. Weird.
I stood still for a few minutes, imagining a clock ticking away the seconds. Then I left the stall to wash my hands. I dried them using the automatic blow dryer. Finally, I checked out my hair in the mirror. The curls were falling in all the wrong directions, but there was little to be done about it. I had no tools or product with me; my bag was back in my office.
I turned toward the door, ready to leave. Something wasn’t right, though.
I had been in the restroom far longer than was natural, I knew. My frequent trips to restrooms over the years had helped me develop an inner clock for private matters. I had stayed too long for a normal, healthy toilet stop. She had been there longer than I.
“Ma’am,” I said aloud, my voice echoing off the tile walls. “Is everything all right?”
Nothing. Not a sound came from the occupied stall. Weird.
“I’m not trying to be nosy,” I continued. “I just thought … well, I thought maybe you needed help?”
Nothing.
“Well, OK then,” I announced, reaching for the restroom door handle.
I couldn’t leave, though. Something was definitely wrong.
I squatted down, not wanting to touch the floor with any part of my body north of my feet. The faculty restrooms tended to remain cleaner than the public ones, but that meant they were cleaned less frequently by staff. I bent over, trying to peek under the door of that first stall. I could see plump feet in tightly fitted sandals. Not helpful.
I dropped to my hands and knees, lowering my face closer to the floor. Now I could see denim capris, wrapped around even plumper knees, through the gap under the stall door. My heart tripped and began racing. Lord, I thought, please let her be deaf!
I crawled the short distance to her stall and stuck my hand under the door, waving it by her feet aimlessly for a few heartbeats.
Nothing.
Shit, I thought. Pun not intended, I followed up.
What do I do now?
Options ran through my head: fetch Public Safety, flag down a janitor, tell my boss.
All solid options, I thought, still on my hands and knees on the restroom floor. This was not my responsibility. Someone else could handle it better than I.
My heart wouldn’t calm down. My head felt light. I pushed myself up onto my knees and took a deep breath, then a second.
I argued with myself: Whose responsibility was it, then? Really.
I dropped back onto my hands and knees and inched forward, squeezing under the stall door. It had been a much easier task when I was a child. And when there was no one sitting on the toilet.
There was barely room for me to twist myself upright inside the stall, positioned sideways between the metal door and her heavy-set legs. I settled onto my knees, being careful to keep my eyes focused on the floor.
I shivered. The cold emanating from the floor and metal door was no surprise, but the fact that she was not radiating heat was startling. My eyes snapped to her face.
She appeared to be sitting comfortably, with her capris around her knees, her hands resting on her naked thighs. Her large frame had settled into itself perfectly upright, her back resting against the wall behind the toilet. Her head, however, had lolled to one side, her vacant eyes staring abstractly up at the ceiling of the restroom.
Weird.
My fears confirmed, my heart slowed.
I couldn’t take my eyes off her face as I stood up, being careful not to touch her, and reached around my own body toward the door lock. I fumbled with it, then forced myself to actually look at what I was doing. The door swung open silently.
I fled the restroom just as silently.
I was mere feet from the restroom when I ran into a janitor, whose face registered more annoyance than shock as I told him about her.
“You sure she dead?” he asked, his head cocked to one side.
Well, yes, I thought. No live person just lets you crawl into her restroom stall with her.
“Yes,” I managed aloud.
He told me to stay put while he called for Public Safety and checked out the situation himself. I didn’t move an inch, the passersby flowing around me unnoticed.
Public Safety sent two officers, who headed straight into the bathroom. Good move, I thought. It would take a couple people to remove the woman from the bathroom. And one big guy to get her off the toilet and out of the stall, I reasoned. In my mind, I played out several removal scenarios, all awkward and clumsy.
I still hadn’t moved from my safe spot in the hallway when the city police and ambulance arrived. The janitor jarred me from my reverie.
“We’re taking the stall apart,” he announced, proudly producing a cordless electric drill. “Makes more sense than trying to pull her out all stiff and shit.”
To myself, I followed up: No pun intended.
I took me a moment to come up with a more appropriate response, an awkward and clumsy: “Cool.”
He shrugged.
Phew!
“Wanna watch?” he asked.
I nodded and followed him back into the restroom, now bustling to the point of crowded.
“WHOA!” a uniformed officer shouted, stopping both of us in our tracks. “What is SHE doing here?”
My eyes were drawn to his, furious blue eyes beneath raised eyebrows.
“I found her,” I offered by way of explanation.
“Good for you,” blue eyes mocked. “You want pictures?”
NO! my mind screamed.
“No,” I said aloud. “I just …
“I don’t know.”
It’s my restroom, I reasoned, not his.
Blue eyes softened facial expression, but not his voice: “Well, you don’t need to be here, so get out.”
I turned around to leave.
“Wait,” blue eyes demanded, stopping me in my tracks. “You said you found her?”
I nodded my head yes, my back still to him.
“The stall door was hanging open, they said. Was it like that when you got here?”
I shook my head, silently making my confession.
“So, what ... you crawl in there to open it?” he asked, his voice mocking me better than his eyes had.
I nodded, further implicating myself.
“Why the hell you go in there? That’s kinda weird.”
Weird?
I turned to face him. He smiled.
“Maybe,” I agreed, shrugging my shoulders, “but what would you have done?”
