The Good Bathroom
Leaning against the wall between the copy room and the supply closet, I cross my arms (and legs) and sigh. Some people are so inconsiderate.
“Waiting long?”
I roll my eyes. Sue frowns, gives me a sympathetic shrug, and heads toward the copier. I could use the other bathroom. But I’m in heels, and it’s all the way down the far end of the building. Of course, I forgot my ID badge and would have to wait for someone to buzz me back into the department. Why on earth they keep the doors locked between the hallway where the bathrooms are located, and the office area, has mystified me since I started working here. Between the daily coffee and the assorted muffins, well, let’s just say that a locked door is very inconvenient.
Checking the time, I consider the alternative. Nope. I hate walking past the mailroom. What if the slug is there? Besides, this is the bathroom of choice: the Rolls Royce of restrooms, the Cadillac of the commode, and the stall with it all. Beyond its prime real estate, it boasts other amenities. For one, it’s private. It’s also large and has the softest bath tissue, not to mention free feminine hygiene products. It’s the little luxuries that count.
The other private bath is NOT conveniently located and smells of cats. After waiting another minute, however, I give up.
The next day I am, once again, unable to get into the throne room. Occupado. Every time. On the last trip, I tried the handle. Locked.
Today, more of the same, and so I casually mention the bathroom situation to Lynnette, the receptionist.
“Haven’t you noticed?” she whispers. I lean in.
“Noticed what?”
“The cleaners are on strike.”
“Since when?”
“Last Tuesday. Surely, it must’ve been mentioned in The Water Cooler.”
The company newsletter is posted biweekly and filled with the usual propaganda, latest initiatives, and hyper-masculine sport-centric motivational quotes. Remarkably, however, it also includes a gossip column aptly titled ‘The Drip’ with the power to muddy or cleanse the waters of the rumor mill. Styled after People magazine, it runs along this vein: Guess what go-getter was seen having an important meeting with the RPS crew last Wednesday? Which two department heads were seen canoodling at the company picnic resulting in a new espresso machine on the third-floor break room? Like celebrity sightings without the celebs. I don’t know if this makes it more or less political, but the vibe is a bit subversive if not outright underground. A little vanilla? Sure, but it still packs a slap, if not a punch.
“I don’t remember seeing anything about a strike,” I tell Lynnette. She shrugs.
“I’ll call the building Super. He has the master key.”
#
Three months later and I can’t stop thinking about it. According to the office scuttlebutt, they found Rhonda’s body on the throne, still holding court. I didn’t see it myself but can picture it just as clearly as if I had, and I’m haunted every time I pass what I’d once thought of as the good bathroom. Troubled not just by the image her rather unceremonious departure (or early termination perhaps) brings to mind, but by the tragedy of it. Countless hours have been spent trying to come to terms with what it all means, in the cosmic sense. But the sad truth is this. Rhonda, like so many of my fellow cube dwellers, had become mired in the obscurity of our day today. Holed up in our cubbies, emerging only when necessary or when there’s cake, apathetic to everything and everyone. She blended into the corporate milieu unseen and yet ubiquitous as a Fichus plant in the lobby of every American Corporation's headquarters.
The greater irony is that Rhonda had been the eyes and ears of the organization. As editor of the now-defunct column, The Drip, she has earned her place in the history of all company newsletters, having been featured in arguably its most bizarre headlines. Remaining both all-seeing and invisible until it was too late. Had she only died before the cleaners’ strike, certainly, this former cube shut-in would’ve been discovered sooner. Still, shouldn’t we, her fellow denizens of the cube farm, have noticed her absence long before that? And what, if anything, does it say about us? - The End
