Shouldn't Have Had Dinner so Late

I went to sleep, and then I was at my office where it used to be on 41st Street a few years ago, with the brass elevators i the lobby and the drab orange hallways upstairs. Boy, did I have to take a shit.

I grabbed the key with the huge plastic "men" fob from the reception desk, fumbling through pens and stapler in the dark. It was the middle of the night, after all. Down the drab hallway to the heavy old fireproof door, key in the lock.

"Occupied! Occupied! Jim Murphy in here!"

He seemed to be following some sort of protocol, a new bathroom etiquette. I didn't question the man on the toilet, just let the heavy door sink closed. Perplexed and just starting to cramp up, I jingled the fob against my leg, thinking. And then there was an identical behind me, on the opposite end of the corridor. Wasn't that the fly-by-night language school? But the sign on the door said "Men," and so did my fob. I tried it, key in the lock, shoulder against the heavy door, shoving my way into darkness. I found the lightswitch, flicked it, and listened somewhat apprehensively for the flickering hum.

"Jim Murphy in here! Jim Murphy in here!"

It came form the corner of the suddenly vast, unfinished room, a bright orange stall wedged int he corner. I cramped again, mumbled an apology, looked from the filthy old steel slop sink by the door, across the cracked concrete floor littered with dust and debris. On the far wall by Jim Murphy's stall was a long trough like a high narrow claw-foot tub, an old-style urinal like you'd find in a dive-bar in Buffalo. Beyond that, in the other corner, was a toilet. No stall, no seat, and no porcelain. It was bare sheet metal, like the slop sink, the type I've only seen in prisons on TV. How much of an emergeny was this?

Enough. I squatted.

Jim Murphy, meanwhile, was making quite a racket in his clean little corner, grunting and farting and rattling the stall door. I braced my forearms atop my knees and concentrated - let's make this quick. Jim gasped sharply and then sighed, long and satisfied. The rattling stopped. I waited, poised, perched rather precariously and likely not exhibiting the best form for bathroom etiquette. But no flush, no buckle, just silence. And then first a trickle, a stream, out from under his stall, and then thicker, heavier, dammed up by a debris pile in the center of the room but quickly bursting its banks. I inched my toes back wide-eyed and struggled around for some toilet paper. There was none. I thought about asking Jim Murphy to toss me a roll but all was silent in the far stall but for the gurgling of the grayish-brown sludge underneath. Nearing full panic, I heard a key scratch in the into the lock and the heavy door flew open.

"Jim Murphy in here! Jim Murphy in here!"

"Hello, Jim!" It was my college literature professor. I heard the clatter of a mop bucket loud on the concrete. He ran the water in the slop sink, humming loudly. Then, turning around for his bucket:

"Hello, John. How's it going?" I hadn't seen him in the better part of a decade.

"Uhhhhh...." Just then there was a gentle tapping on the door.

"Who is it?" the professor boomed, cheerily.

"Can I come in?" It was a women's voice, weak and raspy.

"Sure!" And it was a homeless woman from the shelter in my old neighborhood. I never liked her, generally rambunctious and aggressive and aggressively pathetic - in turns sobbing and screaming, accosting shopkeeper and passersby, arrested weekly and hospitalized nearly as much. But now she was timid.

"My my, what a mess in here." She shook her head sadly, nodding politely when her gaze swept my way.

"Yeah, well," the professor said. "That's what they pay me the big bucks for!" That man was always chipper.

"Oh no, Mister. No." She sounded grave, and then she brightened. "Pardon me a minute." Eyes flashing, she hiked up her filthy white stretch pants and smoothed out the front of a freebie black t-shirt long gone to gray. Off went one black Reebock, the other, then the sloshing mop bucket aloft, and Splash! My feet were thoroughly wet now, clear up to the knees, but I was thoroughly frozen in place. Assuming a traditional diving stance, she gave a delicate trial hop and flopped, belly first, onto the sludge and debris, grinding her elbows and knees into the wet concrete as she pantomimed swimming.

"Row rom row your boat, gently downthe stream." The professor was cacklng gleefully, clutching his ribs against the pain of laughter.

"Wonderful! Wonderful!"

She flopped over onto her back and mimed a backtroke, flthy abd shit-smeared up to the chin. The stall door slapped open and out strode Jim Murphy, white-haired and be-suited with a briefcase in hand.

"Oh, this is great," he said, smiling appreciatively at the spectacle afoot and walking past the urinals to my perch.

"Jim Murphy. Pleased to meet you." He held out his hand and I shook it.

"John was my favorite student. Helluva guy."

"Good," said Jim Murphy, slowly and ponderously, as he furrowed his brown and stroked a white-whiskered chin. "Good to know. I'll certainly keep that in mind." The two smiled, somewhat conspiratorially I thought.

"Well, I've got to be going. Big day tomorrow."

"Here, I'll walk you out. See you later, John. Regards to your folks."

And the light switched off and the clicked shut. Of course I still had no toilet paper.