My favorite men's room was the largest one on the third floor of the Federal Building, where my office was located. It was spacious and bright with a cheerful pattern of blue, white, and yellow tile on the floor and walls. The janitorial staff always kept the place spotlessly clean and well-stocked with soap, paper towels, and toilet paper. Institutional, yet attractive and comfortable, it was truly as fine as a common worker's restroom could be. From the oversized sinks to the stainless steel dome-top trash receptacles, it was all high quality. Everything was well placed and every gleaming white fixture functioned with flawless efficiency.
But it was not just ambiance and serviceability that made this facility rate so very highly among the many in which I have shat on company time. The most important consideration in assessing the worthiness of a workplace restroom is its relative thronage -- that is, the ratio of toilets to workers. This one had a row of nine stalls, not counting a detached handicapped-access stall. The nine stalls were more than we really needed -- and yet, we did need that many.
You see, there is a logical process in selecting a restroom stall. In order to maximize personal space for a private activity, we prefer to choose a stall that is not next to one already occupied. The architects of the Federal Building evidently understood this fundamental need and addressed it by specifying a floor plan that was disproportionately large in relation to proximate office space. I recognized the result as a kind gesture on the part of the U.S. Government. Thoughtful spending had enabled us to take on-duty dumps in an atmosphere of serenity and free space, instead of having to be crowded into the immediate presence of other people shitting, as is common in the private sector.
The handicapped-access stall was set back in a private recess across from a row of urinals. Secluded and roomy, the ADA stall would have been the crème de la crème of staff-level water closets, but it was only for show. No handicapped men worked on the third floor and we who were not handicapped did not use it. It was forbidden.
Among the regular stalls, the best was number nine at the far wall, provided that the adjoining stall, number eight, was unoccupied. The ninth stall was the most popular because it was the most attractive and most private, having a tiled wall on the left of the seated guest and a neighboring stall only on the right. It was the one I felt most at home in, but it was frequently taken already when I needed to go. It was always a proud and happy occasion to find it open and waiting.
The next-best was stall number one. It had metal partitions on both sides and was closest to the entrance door, so it offered the disadvantages of catching more noise from the opening and closing of the door and the distraction of foot traffic passing by. Its advantage was the certainty that no man would be shitting to your right.
If the stalls at both ends were already occupied, then you checked out the rest, hoping to see at least three open stalls in a row so you could get one in or toward the middle. If none like that was available, then you'd look for a stall with a vacant space on at least one side.
Sometimes the door of every odd-numbered stall was closed and shoes were visible under the respective doors because staff members dropping loads at those times were fully and equitably utilizing all available buffer zones. This picture most clearly illustrates the value of having nine toilets when only five people have to shit: there was seating as well as buffer space for each one.
When five guys were shitting in the standard five-man formation, it was acceptable to enter a buffer space because no other toilets were available. What was not acceptable and what greatly irritated me was when the occasional geek would pick a stall next to mine even when well-spaced pots with buffer stalls were readily available elsewhere. And if the social retard was callous enough to fart, moan, grunt, or snort while mindlessly violating my entitled personal space, I went into a suppressed rage and seethed with contempt.
And as if having to sit within a yard of his splashing turds were not undue imposition enough, there was also the inconvenience of having to schedule my exit so that the unwelcome neighbor and I would not both emerge from our stalls at the same time. Considering that the jerk was too thick to understand the basic rule about where to shit, I could reliably predict that he would have no awareness of the second rule either. So it was all up to me to circumvent any incidental we-just-shat-together eye contact that could result in embarrassment or unspoken animosity.
The most frustrating aspect of such an experience was the lack of recourse. In a public restroom, a man does not speak while shitting. To issue an utterance to another man as you squat bare-assed on a bowl or to address another man as he squats likewise would be unthinkable. So I had to passively tolerate these offenses in silence. I could not warn off intruders nor could I speak out against their audacity. Above all, I could not retreat and live to shit another day with any sense of self-respect. Neither fight nor flight was an option.
But one Friday afternoon on a fine summer day, I got lucky. All the elements of vengeance and triumph came together when Richard Purley chose the worst possible time and place to drop his pants in the hope enjoying an intrusive shit.
Richard Purley (not his real name) worked for another agency. I had to deal with him periodically on interagency matters, which was difficult because he was belligerent, uncooperative, and confrontational. This was due in part to a long-standing grudge against my office, but mostly it was just because he was a fat prick. His sarcasm, tantrums, vague threats, and tiresome snottiness in general got him uncivil treatment in return, and we developed an intense contempt for each other.
Fortunately, I was a little sick with something on that memorable day. There had already been a traumatic discharge early in the morning before I left for work. Voluminous quantities of dark brown liquid, semi-liquid, and slimy lumps of some gastrointestinal nightmare had gushed out in long, thick jets. The whole sloppy mess was power-assisted by a deadly gas that blew before, during, and after like an evil wind. The spew of poison air and soupy biohazards filled the bathroom with an unearthly stench that stifled my breath, burned my eyes, and made me fear for my life.
Now it was about two hours after lunch and my intestines were re-pressurized with more of the same. They were writhing, rumbling, and getting ready to heave out another bucketful of brown Hell. With no time to spare, I had just made it back to the Federal Building from a call across town and needed to get to a restroom right away.
I was worried about anal leakage en route to a potty, so my initial objective had been the nearest men's room on the first floor. That would have been a wiser plan, but I temporarily felt more confident once inside the building and recklessly put the importance of familiar comfort ahead of not shitting my pants.
A minute later, past the point of no return, confidence dwindled as pressure increased. It intensified quickly to the extent that I was struggling to maintain control and was truly afraid. Afraid of spurting hot poo in the elevator car, alarming and repulsing the other public servants therein. The shame would be deep and eternal.
I forced that thought out of my mind and replaced it with another. I focused on a mental image of myself as master of my own bowels; calling the shots on where and when they move, where and when they don't. With some psychological relief, but none in the physical, I reached the third floor without incident and credited it to this mind-over-fecal- matter exercise.
I proceeded nervously along the main corridor to the men's room as urgently as a butt-puckered, stiff-legged man full of shit can walk. Looking toward the sub-corridor down the hall where the restroom was located, I noticed Richard Purley waddling toward me from the opposite direction. He was also headed for the restroom, as it turned out.
We met at the door and exchanged hateful glances. I went in first and he followed immediately behind, almost bumping into me and another guy who was trying to get past us to exit. I continued on, quickly scanning the stalls. Every one of them was free. There was no one else in the room, which was not unusual on a Friday afternoon. There probably wasn't much traffic anywhere on the third floor at that time.
It would have been most practical to dart into the first stall, but there were two clear challenges now. Reaching any toilet in time was the critical need, of course, but making it to the coveted throne afar was my ultimate goal. That was the one I really wanted. Just a few more taut mini-steps and it would be mine.
Mr. Purley stayed on my heels. I could hear the huffy-puffy sound of his labored breathing from immediately behind my back. At first, I thought he was trying to get by me in order to claim the ninth stall for himself. I quickened my pressure-constricted stride, confident that the wheezing hog could not outpace me despite the disadvantage of my delicate condition.
He followed the whole way past empty stalls and brazenly entered the eighth one as I went into the ninth. The intent of his antagonistic posturing was obvious by then. I got the message even more clearly as he thumped around noisily in the stall and knocked his big ass into the partition between us before settling onto the pot with an obnoxious sigh. His purpose was to demonstrate blatant disrespect by invading my personal space.
Normally I would have felt the anger building; but not this time. What I felt was the power of a secret weapon within. I felt my sphincter quiver in anticipation of dispensing a dose of noxious wrath and I felt absolute joy in knowing that Richard Purley was positioned at close range to best receive it. With such a wonderfully manifested opportunity at hand, I could hardly contain myself.
And I didn't. I unleashed an intestinal rage that put a decisive and immediate end to any hope of adverse pooping satisfaction in stall number eight. When the explosive turbulence roared into his unguarded environment, he shifted on his seat. The noise had probably startled him. It at least gave him unmistakable notice of an assault underway.
A very short notice. Through warm, humid air in a confined space, the speed of stink approaches the speed of sound. Before the echo of the first eruption subsided, I heard his toilet paper roll spinning in the dispenser and a frantic rustling of paper as he folded some over a couple of times to place over his nose and mouth. I knew he was not wiping with it because he had not had time to shit. He was trying to save himself; trying in vain to shield his airway from an enveloping cloud of death with single-ply, commercial-grade tissue.
I laughed out loud at his futile defense. The transfer of toxic scent molecules from my ass to his nostrils was unstoppable. I fired again and laughed louder.
He was on his feet within seconds, mostly zipped-up, I suppose, and rattling the door latch. Determined to hit him once more before he got out, I grunted and pushed hard. A raspy, squealing fart cut through the contaminated air until a string of wet poo clumps cut it off. They were still plopping into the bowl as Mr. Purley stomped heavily along the length of the room toward the exit.
My shorts were unstained, the warm air was putrid, and all was right with the world. In the afterglow of victory, I contemplated the perfection of accidental timing and felt certain that Mr. Purley would be showing some respect in the future.
He didn't. He only hated me more. But he may have become forever fearful of further feces or flatulence: he never entered my personal space again.
