Confessions of an Office Boy 4 of 5

For a few years in my "mid to late twenties" I worked at a Legal Services company. Frequently, I emailed little quips and blurbs about my job to my mother. She kept them all. Many years after when I decided to start writing I put a bunch of them together in the hopes of making a story. I cleaned them up, adding bits here and there, but I could never quite make them into anything I felt "publishable." The writing style and tone were fine at the time, but changing them to any sort of "literary standard" drastically lost the sincerity in which they were written. So, I gave up on them... until now!!! I hate that I just did that, said "until now" prefaced by an ellipsis. Anyway, I'm going to "release" what I had put together on Facebook and on my shitty blog that I pay no attention to. This is "Episode 4 of 5" of Confessions of an Office Boy.

Email #20:

Holy ####!

At quarter after one I go to the bathroom to rip a deuce. It’s been like clockwork since I started eating bran flakes for breakfast.

The timing itself is great. I have a twenty-minute window before I go to the Seaplane Terminal to pick up the office’s work. It’s usually a dead period where I often try and act busy by looking through my file folders, walking over to the office supply cupboard, or reading my Supreme Court Rules book- which is an impressive feet and makes me look dedicated to the cause. However, these diversions had been getting repetitive and I feared that one day I might make them a little too obvious.

Diversions worked for Dad at the Hamilton steel plant in the sixties when he would carry a piece of steel from one end of the factory to the other all day long. Effective in an environment of a thousand people, but in my office there are only sixteen, and, soon enough, someone would have noticed I had eighty-four packs of Post-it notes. But the bran-flake-induced-regularity was the perfect excuse to disappear for twenty minutes.

The only person who likely knew where I was going for so long was Angela, who sits by the back door where the washroom key is. But she’s probably aware of everybody's “schedule.” The new ritual had been working fine, but I started getting nervous about it because the first floor bathroom supplies the needs of four offices, and, frequently, I could hear someone coming down the hall jiggling keys, and then try to open the bathroom door. This caused a lot of panic, a rushed job. It ruined the experience. And it mortified me that the person waiting in the hall would know who it was when I came out.

There was a breakthrough about two weeks ago, when, on my pilgrimage, I saw John from my office heading into the toilet. I had heard stories about John. He was known to go in there with a coffee and a novel and surface after forty minutes. Sometimes he would take his whole lunch break in there.

But that day I really had to go and I had the “timeline” to stick to. I went back to the office and found the spare key in Marsha's desk, fully prepared to use the ladies toilet. Risky, but the situation demanded it. Sandra saw me going for the spare key and mentioned that sometimes she used the toilet on the second floor if the ladies toilet was occupied; as an evasive maneuver, to deflect my intentions, I told her how badly I needed to pee, and, while doing so, adopted the choreographed pee-dance shuffle.

The second floor key was also in Marsha’s desk according to Sandra. So, I raced down the hall and up the elevator to the second floor bathroom. And what a shrine it was! The key opened a gold coloured door and in front of me was about a hundred square feet of lavatory bliss: a urinal, scented soaps, two stalls, paintings of tulips, and dried lavender in a vase on a corner table. An added bonus was that the main door had multiple locks but just the one key, and the only office on the second floor was currently vacant. So you could lock it behind you and leave the stall door open if you wanted, and away you’d go- it was like taking all your clothes off when nobody was home. Not a care in the world. It was a special place that was mine for as long as I wanted it. Every day.

Of course, it’s when you get too comfortable with routines that they fall apart; you leave things to the last minute, don't plan in advance. And this is what happened today. I rode up the elevator in a confident fashion, at the desired time, only to find the second floor bathroom door wide open with sawdust covering the rose paneled floor. Construction.

I panicked and raced down the stairs- no time to wait for the elevator. I opened the back door to the office and reached my hand around to the wall and grabbed the first floor bathroom key. In a flash I was back down the hall, rounding the corner, and into the first floor toilet. I closed the door and sat down.

I guess I was so relieved at making it safely that I suddenly didn't feel the need to go right away. I looked in my pockets for some reading material. I was analyzing a receipt from the grocery store, intent on figuring out how the taxes work on food, when I realized I was peeing up and on to the wall. In the excitement I half stood up to wipe the wall with the receipt. And then it happened: I was half standing with my pants around my ankles having created a neat little hammock for what should have been in the toilet.

I remember as a child sitting in a box in the bathroom. I was four. I had to go. Dad and Uncle Rick were watching a football game in the living room. It must have been an important game, meaning there was money on the line, because when I asked for assistance, they told me to get off my ass and do it myself. To the best of my knowledge I was trained. I didn't get up, and, instead, just sat there beside the toilet in my steaming hot pants until the game ended. I heard a few cheers and a couple of high fives. Then Dad came in to use the toilet, and when he saw me, and smelt me, he lost it. Words to the effect of “What the fuck is wrong with you?” filled the room. In retrospect it must have been really funny for him, and I'm sure he told the story endlessly to the contractors and tradesmen at the construction sites where he worked. At least that’s what I tell myself.

However, this was now: an adult in an office-building bathroom that had shit his pants. No one would ever treat me the same. They would laugh at me moments after they said hello and I was out of earshot. I would have to quit my job. A reference was out of the question: “He's a good worker but sometimes he shits his pants.” It was serious. The type of critical thinking required was not taught in university, let alone anywhere. I had no idea how I would get out of the mess I was in, literally. It felt like I was at the beginning of a really difficult video game: you start the level in a bathroom; you have crapped your pants. Your mission: get back to your desk clean and safe with the office’s work. You have no weapons.

And then it all came together. I had the company car key in my back pocket. People were waiting for me to get back from the Seaplane Terminal with work. I lived five minutes away. There was a way out that didn't involve going through the office. I moved quickly. I cleaned my pants to the best of my ability. I flushed, washed my hands, and ran out of the building- I left the first floor key in the bathroom; that sometimes happens. Someone might see me walk past the office on the way to the car. This was good. They’d see me doing my job. Nothing would appear out of the ordinary. I checked my phone. It was twenty-two after one. The plane landed at one-thirty. It takes fifteen minutes to taxi into the terminal. Another ten minutes to unload the plane. I had thirty-three minutes. I could say the plane was late, that they were slow unloading. Another ten minutes.

I got in the car. My sweater was in the back. I could sit on it. Bonus: no interior damage. I started driving home. A great song came on the radio: “Every Little Thing You Do is Magic” by the Police. I got all green lights. Into the house and my roommates weren't there. Perfect. I went to the laundry machine. I took off my pants. Added soap. Pressed go. Check point one cleared. Upstairs. I found new pants and new underwear. I went to the bathroom. Quick shower. There was twenty minutes left until I probably got a phone call about my whereabouts. Out of the shower. Changed. I used extra deodorant just in case. I hopped back in the car and drove quickly to the Seaplane Terminal. I signed for the bag. Back to work ahead of schedule. I dropped off the bag and sat at my desk. Mission completed.

Later, Cindy asked if I had being wearing the same pants all day. I said I had. She looked at me funny. I smiled. I looked down. I was wearing my wife's jeans. They were a tight fit. I acted cool. I bought a lottery ticket on the way home from work.


William Farrant