“That’s the Wall of Shame,” I’ll say.
The follow-up explanation makes perfect sense: One of my female co-workers neglects (dare I say, “refuses?”) to toss and replace empty toilet paper rolls. And although I have my suspicions, I have yet to identify the perpetrator of this most egregious affront to human decency (I mean, within the realm of restroom-related calamities, is there anything worse than finding oneself stranded on a communal toilet bowl? The answer to that question, I can personally attest, is a resounding “no.”). So I erected the Wall of Shame to, well, shame the perp.
I fully expected Human Resources (AKA, the publisher’s wife) would eventually notice my gauche social experiment and politely ask me to knock it off – quite literally -- but Liz has become my most dedicated roll collector. Over the course of approximately six months, she and other participating stall sleuths have collected 20 rolls. There’s a process: we scribble the date and time of the offense on the cardboard and then use Scotch tape to attach the roll to my cubicle.
My point in divulging this passive-aggressive pastime is to provide context for my decision to position Bianca on one of the two ladies’ restroom toilet seats with a sign reading, “I SAW YOU. You didn’t toss that empty toilet paper roll. Shame.”
Victim No. 2 did not fully condone my plan. She helped me collect Bianca’s bits when both arms dislocated and clattered to the ground, but I could tell she was nervous about my prank upsetting Liz or, much worse, causing one of the more senior employees to drop dead of a heart attack. I appreciated that; my cubicle offered a clear line of sight to the restroom doors, and I assured Victim No. 2 of my ability to wrestle any old lady to the ground should she attempt to enter.
By 9 a.m., all employees had arrived. I went about my work but always with one eye on the restroom door and the videocamera within easy reach on my desk. Each time someone drew near that door, I activated the camera and bobbed up and down and up and down to peer over the Wall of Shame. But no one entered. No one within the sea of estrogen that is that office had to pee! No one, that is, except me, and I wasn’t about to abandon my sentry and miss recording the first victim’s reaction as she emerged, horror-stricken, from the restroom. By 9:30 a.m., I was crossing and uncrossing my legs and jiggling the alternating suspended foot. Pete was now in on the joke, and he and Victim No. 2 were thoroughly amused by my jack-in-the-box bouncing.
“This is killing me!” I texted them.
“We must have a lot of big bladders in this office,” Pete texted.
“Seriously,” texted Victim No. 2. “Just wait until the coffee kicks in…”
And then J.T. entered the restroom. I activated the camera and sprang from my seat. I took up position between Chris and Mary’s desks and trained the lens on the door. And waited for the scream. And waited. And waited.
Finally, J.T. emerged. She looked at me and looked at the camera, but she didn’t say a word. Her face, in fact, was blank, void of surprise or suspicion or annoyance. She returned to her desk. I returned to mine and exchanged looks of confusion with Pete and Victim No. 2.
Was it possible J.T. hadn’t seen Bianca? I found this unlikely because I had left Bianca’s stall door ajar and the vanity mirror reflected her perpetually serene visage throughout the small room.
I investigated. Yes, stall still open. Yes, creepy face still reflected in the mirror. Huh. Pete suggested I attach an “Out of Order” sign to the remaining stall door, thus forcing victims to confront the interloper. So I did. And we waited. And waited.
“We need one of those nature sound machines that plays the sound of a running stream,” Pete texted. “Hope no one gives Bianca a swirlie!”
“Man, I have heartburn again from all this anticipation,” I responded.
At one point, an elderly employee did venture close enough to the restroom door for me to seriously consider tackling her – or at least cutting her off at the pass – but she returned from her trip to the copy machine unscathed. And then Leverne stepped inside the restroom. She emerged 10 seconds later.
“MEGAN!” she shouted.
It would take another bathroom visit from J.T. – and her resounding scream – before the entire office became aware of our visitor. And then both men and women clustered and crammed into the ladies’ restroom to behold Bianca and snap her picture. The onlookers included the newspaper's editor-in-chief, the associate publisher and Liz. The publisher, Paul, entered holding his nose.
J.T., it turns out, had not seen Bianca on her first bathroom break, and the fact that my recording her exit confused but didn’t phase her should provide some indication of the degree of weird my co-workers associate with me.
Liz approached my desk once the excitement died down.
“Can you come with me?” she said, putting an arm around my shoulders.
Uh-oh. I glanced at Victim No. 2. Now I too was genuinely nervous.
“Hello,” said a voice from behind the receptionist’s desk. “How can I help you?”
Bianca was seated in the receptionist’s chair and Dawn, in the cubicle behind the receptionist’s station, was using the phone intercom to provide her with a voice. I laughed and watched, dumbfounded, as Liz snapped a photo of Bianca. Despite the heartburn, anxiety and near bladder rupture suffered by poor Victim No. 5 (me) -- that unexpected appreciation for silly made this year’s shenanigans all worthwhile.
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