The 8:30 phone call to come into work (I work casual hours) was enough to startle me out of the dark, hungover bat cave that passed for my room at the time. I didn't feel too bad; however, my mouth tasted like Jabba the Hutt's armpit after that shitty burger. My boss inquired, "Can you make it by 10 AM? We have an emergency staff meeting." My monetary instincts reacted ahead of my brain, and before I knew it I was in the shower preparing for an easy four-hour shift manning the library's front desk.
Arriving at work noticeably fresher, I assumed my position on the desk. It was quite a busy morning, and with all other staff at the meeting, I had to assist a fair number of people without help. Now, normally I can hold off any self-inflicted bodily attacks on my credibility, but this day was different.
The cramps hit around 10:45. It was one of those moments where the true nature of the fecal situation is immediately apparent; in this case it was urgent and unforgiving! I served one more customer, and sweat formed on my brow. There was no way I could interrupt the meeting to ask for help on desk while I took a dastardly crap; but there was no way I could stand in the same spot for another, say, 45 seconds!
I decided to take the sneaky way out. As the queue stood there patiently, I slipped out the back, past the staff meeting, and discreetly slid into the bathroom on the pretence of "getting something." Walking into the stall was like I was walking on eggshells.
I felt the life-affirming feeling of letting the world go, along with a decent amount of digested waste! Oh boy, what relief! I relaxed, in synchronization with my bowels, which were sentencing me to the fecal equivalent of 25-to-life for the previous evening's misdemeanors! I had made it!
But wait! There were more cramps, undoubtedly related to the poor choice in late-night nutrition. I was paying a heavy penalty indeed, and I was certain slave to the porcelain for another two minutes at least -- f*&k! The queue at the desk would be a mile long!
It was time to face facts. I could call the operation off now with minimal time wastage to try and save face, or have a black (brown?) mark on my permanent work record for pooping on a rostered desk shift.
I cleaned up as best as I could. I was all thumbs whilst wiping, and at that frantic stage it felt like it took ten minutes. I freshened up and strode out a changed man!
My newfound confidence took a nosedive when I walked past the staff meeting. The silence and sullen looks meant one thing: I had been sprung! The people queuing had actually called out behind the desk into the workroom for assistance! From there, the meeting had to be disbanded, so a librarian could help them, which pissed all the other staff off, as they like nothing better than eating cake and talking rubbish at a meeting.
As I returned to the desk, I glanced at the clock, which revealed I had condensed four minutes of my life into this steaming saga. I heard my boss, who wouldn't look at me, say, "he's back," to the others, who sniggered. They went back to their meeting for another hour, and it was, spookily, never mentioned out loud again. It was obvious that although my "disappearance" alibi was solid, my customer service skills left a lot to be desired.
In the future, if the phone rings at 8:30 I'll just ignore it.
-- James S.