Tuesday, May 14, 2013

Abomination in the Bathroom

Part of my duties at the Undisclosed Location where I work is to check and maintain the bathrooms.  Today, I went to check and maintain the women's bathroom which, in this instance, is a euphemism for an unscheduled, during-shift bowel movement. 

However, someone beat me to it.

How do I know this?  Well, it's not because they were still in there.  No, they had gone.  Oh, how they had gone.

It was a ghost pooper.

What the ghost pooper left behind was unholy.

Now, usually it's Russian Roulette with the stalls.  I check each one, each time, before choosing the lesser evil.  We're due a remodel, and we're hoping we get one soon.  Starting with the bathroom.

This, though.  This. 

This was unspeakable.  I was completely stunned.

I discerned very quickly that it was not a failed flush experience that resulted in a panicked flee from the restroom.  Usually, with those, there's either too much water in the toilet, because even with a failed flush, water rushes into the bowl, or there's a sucked absence of water in the toilet's desperate attempt to comply with what the silver lever bids it do. 

Clearly, none of this had happened.  It looked as if the person, the ghost pooper, simply finished their abomination, lifted their pants, shrugged, and walked off from the scene, leaving it to me to approach later. 

The stench was horrid.  I'm telling you, it was an abomination.  Why or how in the world people can call homosexual behavior an abomination when this (literal!) shit exists in the world, I'll never know.

But I must do what I must do.  I knew that.

I reached back and grabbed a paper towel from the machine that deposits a paper towel if you simply wave your hand in front of it.  How the paper towel dispenser was able to keep it together enough to still perform this task after it had been left in a small space with the ghost pooper, and then their abomination, is yet another mystery to me, but I took that paper towel and held it over my face, then used my foot to commando-style kick the stall door open all the way, took a couple quick steps into the stall, and slammed that silver toilet lever with all the might my hefty work shoe could offer. 

It flushed.

I performed a second, clarifying flush.

Later that day, a gentleman approached me in the hallway of the restaurant and informed me that there were some "very bad words" scrawled on the inside of one of the stalls in the men's room.

It is a testament to my unwavering willpower and sense of professionalism that I did not dismissively snort in his general direction.

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