Stall number one in my office bathroom has been stolen.
There are four stalls and two urinals in the men's bathroom here on the 16th floor of the big-time New York ad agency where I work -- the four stalls on the right, the sinks and then the urinals on the left. The setup is a tight, so much so that there is not enough room for two men to pee next to one another at the urinals without encroaching on each other's comfort zone. I hadn't been working here long before the drill became clear: if, upon seeing someone at the urinal when I enter the bathroom to pee, I should make an immediate right turn into the first bathroom stall and pee there. That's what everyone does. That's the most comfortable way to pee here on the 16th floor of my big-time hotshot New York ad agency.
Except for the past three weeks, stall number one has been locked.
A locked stall in and of itself isn't odd. After all, people poo in stalls, and people lock the door when they're pooing. I myself would never poo in the first stall because that's the pee stall, containing the seat most likely to be splattered upon -- but I doubt many people are as observant of matters of the bathroom as I, in my capacity as editor of PoopReport.com, am. And so, pressing on to stall door number one only to find it unyielding does not necessarily create cognitive dissonance.
Most of the men on my floor pee many times a day. I know I do. So deferring to the first stall upon seeing the urinal space occupied is something I've grown quite used to doing. It didn't raise any flags the first time I found stall number one to be locked; I probably just went to stall number three. But after a few days of stall number one remaining so obstinate, I began to wonder. One day, two weeks ago, after doing my business and washing my hands, I deliberately looked through the cracks between the partition and the door of stall number one as I exited the bathroom.
Empty.
Stall number one was locked. And yet stall number one was not occupied.
That was two weeks ago.
At first, I laughed. Someone must have locked stall number one accidentally. That toilet hadn't been used in weeks! And what's worse, that toilet must not have been cleaned in weeks! Inside stall number one was a time capsule, a toilet undisturbed since the last instance a human had been in there, either pristine and virginal or contaminated and repugnant, depending on whether it was the maintenance staff or an office worker last in there, and what they'd been up to.
The maintenance staff.
They're good in this building. Top notch. My trashcan is emptied every night. I've never been in a stall with no toilet paper. When the pipe burst on the 15th floor on April Fools Day, they responded immediately when a lesser maintenance staff would have dismissed the frantic call as a prank. How is it that they haven't noticed and fixed a stall door that had been locked for three weeks?
Wait. What if they don't know it's locked?
What if, at night, when the maintenance staff makes their rounds, that stall door isn't locked at all?
Here is what I believe: I believe that every morning one of my coworkers enters that bathroom. He loiters at the urinal, waiting, waiting, waiting until the coast is clear. And then he sidles over to stall number one and locks the door. At the end of the workday, he returns. If the coast is clear, he unlocks stall number one, enters, and poops.
On a perfectly pristine and virginal toilet. A toilet untouched by ass since it was cleaned the night before.
Someone is bogarting stall number one. Someone in this big-time hotshot crackerjack New York ad agency thinks that stall number one on the 16th floor is his own private crapper. He locks it when he arrives in the morning and unlocks it in the evening after he defiles it, pooping in the confidence and comfort that comes from knowing that the only ass that has touched that toilet is his own.
I have proof.
Standing at the sink today, I thought to myself: how does one lock and unlock one of these stall doors from the outside? These are sliding locks, and the slider is on the inside. From the outside, the only hint of the locking mechanism is a beveled, recessed hole, through which is visible a painted portion of the slider. Green means plop, red means no. When you slide the lock from the inside, the slider visible from the outside shifts from green to red.
Working at stall number three, I tried sticking my finger in the hole and moving the slider. No luck -- my finger was too big, or the hole was too small. Story of my life.
I took out my keys and stuck one in the hole. It stripped the paint easily before finding purchase on the slider. I pressed, and it locked.
My key stripped the paint. That is the proof.
I give you Exhibit A: the slider lock of stall number four.
Next: I give you Exhibit B: the slider lock of stall number one.
Look at that hole! Look at that hole! What could have caused a hole like that? Why, it looks like someone stuck their key in that hole again and again -- again and again, or, perhaps, twice a day, every day, over the last three weeks...?
Someone is locking and unlocking stall number one from the outside.
Someone thinks stall number one is their own private stall.
I'm convinced of it.
Now I have two tasks:
1) Finding out who it is without letting him know I know.
2) Deciding the best possible way to let him know I'm on to him.
Any suggestions?
-- Dave
