I was in our office thinking of a concept when I felt it. A prodigy in my body which grew viciously by the minute.
This was not a problem until I become addicted to water. I used to avoid situations like this by excreting all the contents of my colon every morning. Water induces me to do it not just once but twice, sometime thrice, and believe me its uncountable.
Sometimes I have this urge to go home, by cab, but this would take me more than half an hour. This insistent, drowsy feeling called for a more instantaneous action. I didn’t have the luxury of half an hour, but the destitution of two minutes or less. So I grabbed a roll of tissue paper, my Johnson baby bath soap solution and my 40% isopropyl alcohol and gone for a restroom inside the Publications Division wishing that there is an empty and superficially clean and dry cubicle.
Thanking my guardian angels, my wish was granted upon reaching the first cubicle in the restroom. That cubicle had a door that would not lock. In addition, there was only a ruler-wide vertical gap between the door and the partition—just enough for a passing Peeping Tom to satisfy his fetishes.
I inspected the bowl closely and saw that it was indeed devoid of chunky and viscous matters. I learned from my handsome Biology professor that even a flawless spotless square millimeter surface can contain a Pasig River-full of vegetation of Staphylococcus Aureus, Eschericchia coli, and Eubacterium and other harmful -rium and coli organisms. So I exorcised the innocent-looking toilet rim with the Holy 40% isopropyl alcohol—once, twice, thrice, until the whole plastic container was empty—to kill it of all the pathogen-carrying organisms.
I pulled my pants and white undies down, awkwardly, like I’m stripping for a group of old, smelly, wartsful-faced perverts. I hanged my clothes on the hook attached on the cubicle’s wall.
Then the journey began. I squatted. I tried not to touch the rim but this no-contact method felt awkward and strenuous for a couch potato like me. So, after a moment’s hesitation, I sat down and felt the surgically-cold “inodoro” against my flesh. The few hairs on my neck stood up and chills ran up my spine.
Warm, yellow, concentrated liquid squirt from mine to the bottom of the ceramic chair and a soft, long whistle was heard. I was about to release the prisoners in my colon when I heard women’s footsteps. A lady knocked and asked if there is someone inside. I just answered “Uhm-uhm.” Then she and the other lady entered the other cubicles. I heard the shushing of piss. Oh gosh! I really wanted some privacy. I am about to deposit and I want to do it alone! Can I have this restroom for myself even for ten minutes? I controlled the whistle and delayed the unavoidable, much to the mortification of my impatient prisoners.
I don’t know about you but for me, pooping in someone’s presence is quite intimate. It’s like kissing. Since I wasn’t in the mood to bond or to chitchat with the mysterious peeing lady that day, I waited and waited and waited (Ms. Pee had to wash her hands, examine her blackheads, re-apply a dab of oil-free face foundation on her face and comb her hair) until she was finally out of my room.
After what felt like centuries, I finally deposit my account. I was aiming for a sound-proof act but still there was a soft whistle. There is always rainbow after the rain. The positive thing was that the delivery was over in less than thirty seconds and it was downloaded neatly for I pulled the flush a second after the last clump was released.
I washed the remnants. I unrolled the reel of tissue in my hand and wipe the unwashable. I flushed three times and clean all evidences of my crime. I unhooked my garments and wore them and listened for any sound. The coast was clear and before I left my dear cubicle, I made sure no one was outside for I didn’t want to be branded by anyone as The Lady Who Just Pooped.
I washed my hands with my gentle-scent Johnson baby wash soap solution and returned to my work station as if nothing happened.
