I hate it when I hear people approaching the public bathroom stall that I’m currently occupying.
OH GOOD CRAP! GO AWAY! I put the vibe out any time I hear footsteps coming my way. It never works.
I’m sure *some* of it has to do with anxiety left over from all the “bathroom incidents” when I was bullied as a kid.
But more than anything, it’s a fear that the lock will fail.
And it’s a justifiable fear! On several occasions I’ve been sitting there minding my business in public johns when the door suddenly flies open leaving me with my drawers around my ankles, my eyes bulged to Nebraska, and looking eye to eye with some random dude desperate to unload.
“Oh, sorry man,” he’ll always say as he turns on a dime and disappears, usually slamming the door again which always leaves it slightly ajar.
Sorry man? Oh good crud. “Sorry” just doesn’t cut it.
Not when I’m covering my nethers with one hand, holding my pants up around my calves with the other, and duck-walking to the stall door to attempt a fresh turn of the lock.
In those moments, I have to wonder who deserves the boot in the face. The dude? Or the facility who has faulty bathroom locks?
And then there are the times when I’m sitting in a plain ol’ one toilet public bathroom. No stall. Just me. A toilet. A sink. And the door.
And there’s always some idiot who comes along as if their entire life’s purpose is to destroy my alone time. My thinking time. My private time.
It always goes down like this.
The handle jiggles. That’s okay. That’s how you know if somebody’s in there. It’s also how you send the message from the outside that somebody else is waiting.
But then that idiot…