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 Barbarian At The GatePosted 04.04.2003 by Artful Dodger (345)
Not long ago there was a discussion in the forums about whether or not to tip the housekeeping staff if one happens to make an inappropriate mess in the restroom. I don't recall the answer, but I do remember that everyone expressed appreciation for the people that make their living by swamping out toilets and cleaning pissers in our public facilities. I appreciate their efforts as well -- but I would prefer they plied their trade when I wasn't around.
A few days ago I crossed over to the Other Side. I'm not referring to the death experience -- The Other Side is the quaint nickname we have at work for our local sales facility. The only thing I crossed was the parking lot, and instead of a bright light, my eyes fixed upon the unshaded light fixture of my favorite restroom. Since I work nights, the Other Side is always empty, and in the back of the building is a cozy little restroom where I like to do my business. Just like Superman has his Fortress of Solitude, I have my little restroom. Going there means more to me than just dropping a load. While I'm there I can relax from my hectic schedule and spend a few moments in quiet reflection, away from the noisy machinery and the myriad questions from the employees that look to me for guidance. For a short time I am alone in the world, with no cares except my own, and I like that. What I do not like is being interrupted from my reverie. On this night, I got a late start toward my haven. I generally go there around 3 AM, but on this night events conspired to keep me away until almost 5. By this time, the wolves were howling at the gate, and my need was growing urgent. I hurriedly dropped my pants, successfully completing The Move, and sat down. Halfway through my sweet relief, my ears caught a strange sound, and I looked up from the gentlemen's magazine draped across my knees. A few seconds later I heard a sound that I recognized immediately: the little plastic wheels on the housekeeper's supply cart. He was heading for the restroom -- my restroom -- and I wasn't anywhere near being finished. Being the Shameless Shitter that I am, when the cart squeaked to a stop outside the door, I called out to let the turdwrencher know someone was inside. I figured that he would tidy up the little sales office while I drew my business to a close, and everything would be fine. I didn't count on his lack of social skills. There's a reason this man cleans toilets for a living. He's loud, obnoxious, none too bright, with an inflated sense of self-importance. Since he's set to retire soon, he's grown even more curmudgeonly in his last few weeks. Instead of cleaning the office or at least waiting patiently, he banged on the door and yelled, "Get the fuck out!" I advised him that I'd be out in a second. While I pinched off the last nugget and cleaned myself up, he stood outside the door, grumbling about "rotten, worthless bastards always gettin' in the way." That wasn't a good thing for someone that has just disturbed my quiet time to say, and saying "About damn time!" when I finally opened the door was even worse. He quieted down when he realized that I -- the boss -- was the one in the restroom, but by then the damage had already been done. I chewed his ass for a minute or two and made it very clear that I would not tolerate that sort of behavior toward me or any of my employees. I might have been willing to let the whole thing pass, but no one bothers me during my quiet time. It makes me cranky. I eventually let him off with a final remark that if he plans on being a door greeter at Wal-Mart after he retires, his attitude is going to need some serious adjustment. That was last week. Apparently Mr. Clean holds a grudge -- because when he came in to mop the floor in my office this morning, instead of bringing his mop bucket with him, he poured a liberal amount of ammonia on the tile and spread it around with the mop. Thankfully I was called away from my desk soon after -- the fumes made it difficult to breathe and my eyes were starting to water. If he tries that again tomorrow morning, I'm kicking him out. The housekeeper is retiring at the end of the month, and there is a big red X on that day in my calendar. It's a personal reminder of the moment when my private little restroom will once again be my fortress of solitude. Post new comment
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