Holding Pattern
Like many family members, my daughter Liz prefers to be in the privacy of her own home when she makes a doody. When she times it just right, she goes before departing for work each morning. But her body and employment schedules don’t always coordinate.
On this particular day, Liz’s system was off kilter. In a rush to get to work, she’d missed her vital morning appointment with the throne. She’d simply have to “hold it” until she returned later that evening. Ten hours later. That wasn’t anything she hadn’t managed before, so she felt confident her willpower would thwart any internal resistance.
But that was before she learned she’d be having dinner that evening with her boss Richard and her career mentor Sandra.
Liz’s corporate coach had come to Dallas for an executive visit. So, that morning, either to help promote Liz to upper management or to take advantage of Sandra’s abundant per diem, Richard invited Liz to join him and Sandra for dinner.
All day, Liz suffered from a moderate case of tummy turmoil. At lunchtime, she purposefully ate little, hoping to circumvent a trip to the office restroom where, God forbid, she might fart or otherwise foul the air Sandra would breathe—assuming Sandra wasn’t too important to answer her own nature calls.
In all likelihood, Sandra’s executive bladder would give way sometime during the day and send her into that place where everyone holds equal status, if not volume. The laws of chance suggested Liz might be inside the restroom when such time arrived. If so, she didn’t want to be caught in the undignified act of dropping dumplings.
Before you scoff, let me assure you that Liz’s behavior isn’t all that unusual. You see, from mail clerks to senior executives, we all share similar phobias. Most of the time, we females are inside public restrooms, just tinkling quietly in our semi-private stalls, praying to the heavens that we won’t permit a squeak to escape. Should such a faux pas occur, we hope that either there’s no one else in the restroom with us or that the shoes we’ve worn that day are unrecognizable.
Gals have been conditioned since childhood to believe that ladies don’t have gas and, on the rare occasions when they do, they’re not to let it out where anyone within the same time zone can catch a whiff of it.
This perfectly explains why Liz didn’t take a poop all day. If she’d chosen otherwise, noise and smell would have surely followed. And she didn’t wish to commit such social offenses at work.
Having made it through most of the day without succumbing to her physical needs, Liz felt a pinch in her abdomen. Nonetheless, she ignored the telltale sign and hobbled from her corporate headquarters to the restaurant where she was to meet her boss and mentor. Luckily for her, the eatery was inside a hotel located directly across the street from her office. Still hoping to complete her workday before she attended to her bathroom business, she didn’t stop to use the restaurant’s powder room facilities before joining her party.
Along with Liz’s many other oversights that day, she’d failed to consider that five-star restaurants assume no one wants to rush a meal. Richard ordered wine and hors d’oeuvres ahead of three courses, none of which were served or consumed with any haste.
Lingering over the desserts Liz had hoped no one would order, she wondered if the crab cakes she’d shared earlier had come to life inside her intestines. The crustaceans had elevated her need for a bathroom to full emergency status. She considered how she’d make her imminent exit.
The table conversation droned on. Richard enthused, “Sandra hasn’t ever been to Dallas.” As if matching two puzzle pieces, he nodded at Liz and then said to Sandra, “Liz lives downtown.”
Liz forced a smile that was more of a grimace. “Yes, several blocks from here.”
“Oh, then you must know the area well,” Sandra suggested.
“Well, kind of.” Liz shifted in her chair and clutched her midriff. If she didn’t find a toilet fast, she might erupt in a succession of gaseous explosions that even the least astute mentor couldn’t ignore.
“So why don’t you give Sandra the tour?” Richard offered. “It’s a beautiful night outside. You could walk around for a little while.” He pushed back his chair. Clearly, Richard had somewhere else to be. And from his cavalier remark, he must have thought he was the only one on a schedule.
“I’d love that!” chimed Sandra. “Could we maybe just go see the Arts District? I’ve heard a lot about it. Is it far from here?”
Liz’s internal furnace felt as if someone had turned the dial to Incinerate. Perspiration beads formed along her hairline. She dabbed one hand at her brow and gestured with the other. “No, it’s just two blocks that way,” she squeaked. “We could go now, if you like.”
The sooner Liz could escort Sandra to this landmark destination, the better. Maybe the museum would be open and she could rush inside to find a toilet. No, that wasn’t going to work. How would she do that without Sandra accompanying her and hearing the inevitable butt blast that threatened to destroy her professional image? What would she say? If she told the truth, Liz would have to admit to a company executive that her panties weren’t big enough to handle the pending security breach. Being a super-achiever and a lady, she didn’t wish to make that kind of impression on senior management.
Practically loping down the sidewalk, Liz led Sandra toward the Dallas Museum of Art. Sandra, locked into her designer stilettos, struggled to keep up.
“That’s San Jacinto Tower,” Liz said, her speech clipped. “And this is Ross Avenue.” Maybe if she kept her mind distracted long enough, the spasms would lessen.
But instead of easing, her cramps strengthened with vengeance.
Arriving at the museum, Liz found the building had already closed for the evening. She’d no longer have the option of using those public facilities, but that stroke of luck provided the perfect excuse to expedite the jaunt back to the hotel.
Liz knew there wasn’t any way she’d make it back to her downtown apartment building without soiling herself, so she began to think strategically. If she could cut this walking tour short and return Sandra to her hotel, from that point she’d be close to her corporate office building. With her employee badge, maybe she could convince the night guard she’d left something at her desk and he’d let her through security. Then she’d make a beeline for the ladies’ room she normally refused to pollute but was now more than willing to make an exception.
Making the final turn on their shared path, Sandra paused to express her gratitude to Liz. “If you’re ever in New York—” she began.
Liz cut her off. She couldn’t think about the Big Apple when she was focused on a much closer and more crucial destination. Distracted by the whale sounds coming from her stomach, Liz interjected an abrupt goodbye. Nearly sprinting, she ignored the “Don’t Walk” light. No cars were coming. But her brown bus was about to back out of the garage!
Inside the office high-rise, a night watchman handed Liz a clipboard to sign before he checked her photo ID. The guard explained he’d have to accompany her to the elevator because the lift only operated after hours with his assistance.
Standing inside the transport, her colon under more pressure than Charlie Sheen at an AA meeting, Liz locked her knees and gritted her teeth.
The security watchman escorted Liz to the correct floor and returned to the lobby.
As soon as the elevator doors closed behind her, Liz threw her purse to the floor and churned her feet. Racing down the long hallway to the restroom, she peeled out of her smart career jacket and tugged her blouse free from her slacks. By the time she reached the restroom door, she was half-undressed and completely undone.
Frantic, Liz dashed into the first stall and shoved down her pants. Her fanny hadn’t fully cleared her tailored trousers before the volcano blew.
One more second, and everything would have been fine.
But she didn’t get that extra second.
In the half-light, she did her best to aim. However, her best fell far short of public health code complian
ce.
By the time she finished, it looked like someone had detonated a cherry bomb inside an outhouse. The prematurely fired matter dripped from one divider wall, the commode lid, and even the toilet paper holder.
Helpless to correct the situation, Liz stared at her business pumps. Somehow she’d managed to shoot sauce on them too.
She tidied up as best she could, collected her belongings, and scurried like a thief from the building. Having left the social crime scene, she didn’t know whom to feel worse for: herself or the night cleaning crew.
Wandering the dark streets, Liz mentally reviewed the day’s events. That’s when the irony struck her.
All day long, her body had screamed at her to take a crap. She’d forfeited every opportunity, only to later end up right back where she should have taken care of business in the first place: the company restroom. Now she’d left behind way more than a rotten smell. But on the upside, there was no chance Sandra would catch wind of it.
~