Willie's Narrow Escape

Willie stood in line with his colleagues. The smell of cheese and chicken filled the banquet room of the hotel as they filed past the buffet tables. Each had his choice of rubbery roasted chicken breasts or too-sweet Mongolian beef. There was also fettuccini with a thick layer of alfredo cheese coagulating over it, and enchiladas that were comprised of nothing more than stale tortillas smothered with weak salsa. The big silver tubs seemed to go on forever, indefinitely repeating themselves. Unimpressive side dishes served to break up the monotony of the entrees now and then; corn, beans, mashed potatoes.

Willie was typically a finicky eater but, since the announcement for the convention boasted a "spectacular" caterer, he had left his egg-salad and watercress sandwich at home. He sighed discontentedly as he looked down the long row of gleaming trays. He thought about skipping lunch altogether, but the knot in his stomach made him reconsider. They'd been going since 9:15 in the morning, and there didn't seem to be an end in sight.

Willie wouldn't have been in this situation at all if the meeting weren't mandatory. But it was. The boss, Chuck, had made that very clear about a month ago. He made it very clear to Willie especially, who seemed to him like a prime candidate for petering out.

The meeting was intended to bolster employee morale by praising their latest efforts, but also to provide a gentle reminder about the kind of performance, productivity, and general behavior expected of them. In the same way that an individual should sandwich a criticism between two compliments so as to not offend the offending party, Grimley Incorporated used these meetings to subtly redirect the team of horses that made their carriage go. The rewards, the praise, the fettuccini-these were the blinders.

Willie knew this. He knew all too well how those corporate muckety-mucks manipulated their mindless drones. These trinkets were wasted on him. In fact, they were more of an insult than anything else, and he used the sneer on his face to show them all just how unimpressed he was with their miserable charade. Still, a guy's gotta eat.

Willie piled a bit of the enchilada onto his ceramic plate (though reluctant to admit it, he had been pleasantly surprised by the lack of disposable plates and utensils), as well as some refried beans, and a little bit of corn. Then he picked up a cherry flavored Jell-O cup and made his way to an empty table. No sooner had he sat down than he felt a strong jab against his arm.

"Willie! How's it going? Ooh, nice selection. I see you've opted for some exotic Latin fare," Art chuckled.

Art was one of Willie's co-workers. He was an average guy. He was actually less than average, plain, more ordinary than Willie himself. He was on the short side, balding, considerably overweight. He would've made a great mall Santa. The thing about Art that irked Willie the most was how desperately he tried not to be ordinary. He wore the loudest shirts he could find, and paired them with "novelty" ties. On every company picnic for the last five years, he'd faithfully donned the same witty T-shirt disparaging Mondays.

Willie was content to be average. People like Art made him a little sad and annoyed. Unfortunately for Willie, people like Art seemed drawn to him. They derive great pleasure from slapping him on the back and watching amusedly as he composes himself. He only hoped that Art did not tell any off-color jokes as they ate.

Art sat in the chair next to Willie and made some noise with the cutlery. His round, doughy fingers closed over the fork as he licked his lips and said, "Boy, this is one nice spread, don't you think, Willikers?"

Willie cringed at the use of the nickname. Art had insisted on using it since the first day that Willie came to work for Grimley. Art said it would make him feel more like a part of the "team." Luckily, the idea of crying out, "Gee, willikers!" every time Willie entered the office hadn't caught on with the rest of the group. Art's nicknames never caught on, in fact. Arthur, or "Arty" as he referred to himself, didn't seem to influence the other workers too heavily. But that didn't stop him from trying.

"Yes," Willie replied, "The buffet is quite nice."

"They treat you real good at Grimley. Best job I ever had." There was a pause as Willie tucked a napkin into his shirt collar. His ginger-colored mustache bobbed merrily up and down when he chewed. Mouth full, he exclaimed, "Woah! I hope you take it easy with those beans there, otherwise I wouldn't want to be the one sitting behind you for the rest of the day! Ha, ha! I hope you brought some Immodium AD with you pal! Ha, ha!"

Willie's ears got a little hot, but he managed to force out a weak smile as Art laughed heartily at his own fart and poo remarks. Then he watched Art shovel one forkful after another into his crooked-toothed mouth. Willie couldn't distinguish what the man was eating. He seemed to have mashed all the dishes together on his plate, and he breathed heavily as he went on. Willie looked at the pale circle ringed by more ginger on the top of Art's head. He looked at the freckles and wrinkles on Art's face. Then Willie noticed the white band of skin where Art's wedding ring should sit. Before his conscience could stop him, Willie asked, "What happened to your ring? Did you lose it?"

An expression of pain flickered across Art's face.

"Yeah. Slipped right off my finger and down the drain one morning before I even knew what was going on." What a terrible liar he was. Willie felt guilty for having been so vicious. Art was kind of a jerk, but there was no reason to hurt his feelings on purpose.

"I find them burdensome, myself," he quickly responded.

"Yeah," Art mumbled, "It fit better before the doctor put me on my special diet, that's all. That's all. But I'm quitting that darn diet. Blood pressure or no, it's just not worth it." Willie knew about the diet. Everyone in the office knew about the diet, because Art made a point of waving his rice cakes and celery sticks in anybody's face that had a burrito or something decent for lunch, and telling them how lucky they were. Willie also knew that Art had not lost a single pound. In fact, it seemed that he had gained since he began the diet.

There was a quiet space, and Art rose. "And I'm sick of those silly pills. No matter what I do, my health don't improve. So I'm not doing it anymore. I think I'm gonna have me some seconds, in fact." He was blanched, but smiled nonetheless.

Once Art was gone, Willie felt relieved. He pulled out the little paperback he had brought along. It was a story about a man and a woman. The man was a noble scientist, and the woman was his lab assistant. Willie had always been admiring of men of science. When he was eleven years old, his mother had bought him a chemistry set. He learned how to make a hard-boiled egg act just like rubber, and how to use baking soda for a makeshift volcano. But he soon found that his talent for calculations was best-used in a profession like this, where a fellow could earn a decent living instead of frittering away his time fiddling with beakers and burners and the like.

A page later, he felt his intestines rumble and thump. He placed a hand over his stomach and thought of what Art had said earlier. The thought of being ill away from home made him feel even more ill. He suddenly became very apprehensive. He left the Jell-O and tray on the table and hurried to the men's room.

It was empty, but for one pair of feet in the third stall. Willie bit his lip as the rumble in his stomach turned to pressure in his bowels. He shifted his weight from one foot to another, and looked around the room for a solution. Willie's hands felt clammy, and he grew hot all over. An announcement was made for all employees of Grimley, Inc. to please return to the conference room. The feet in the stall stirred and were still again, but there was no flush. Willie was consumed by panic, knowing that he couldn't do anything until this guy let him have the place to himself.

It was no secret among his co-workers that Willie was prone to stage fright when it came to urinals. But the stall! Use of the stalls in public was only merited by the worst kind of emergency and required absolute privacy. This was not privacy. This was a pair of ugly old wingtips, which rested on the coral tile like they were planted there. Willie had no choice. He couldn't possibly relieve himself with a stranger in his presence. He would simply have to wait until the next break.

Willie returned to the conference room pale and woozy, just as the doors were closing. There was a murmur in the room, dozens of men joking and talking. The VP took the mic and the voices subsided. He started droning on about what a fine lunch we've had but now back to business. Willie wasn't paying attention. He could only think about his bowels, the need, the way it made the hair on his arms and neck stand up.

He noticed the district supervisors quietly taking stock of their little sheep. His own supervisor, Chuck, looked at his watch and gave Willie a thumbs-up from the aisle for having made it back just under the wire. Then Chuck walked over to his boss, the county supervisor, and said something to which the man shrugged a what-can-you-do? shrug. A note was made, and that was all.

Willie looked away, trying to focus on something else in the room to distract him.

He saw the woman from the sixth floor sitting at the end of the row across the aisle. She was wearing a deep shade of red, something like burgundy--a skirt suit. There was a run on one side of her leg where the nylons she wore had snagged. The run went up from her ankle, turned sharply at her knee, and disappeared somewhere under her skirt. The nylon was a few shades darker than her skin. The run looked like a pale little stripe, like a line dividing traffic lanes, and Willie imagined running two of his fingers in opposite directions over her thigh while she giggled in his bed. It had been so long since a woman giggled in his bed.

Then he realized that she, the woman from the sixth floor, had noticed his gaze. She was uncomfortably darting her eyes over to see if he was still staring. He quickly diverted his attention to the ground below his chair, to his watch, to anything. Willie wished he were wearing a diaper. A Depends. He thought that people who wear diapers must have things pretty good. He clenched his muscles together, and closed his eyes. Only forty minutes to go, and things would be all taken care of.

The VP concluded his diatribe of nothing, and they were free for fifteen minutes. Willie hustled to the bathroom, thinking only of the moment when his burden would burst forth and be gone, but was dismayed to find a number his co-workers had beaten him there despite his rush.

He unsteadily walked across the floor to the sink. Looking into the mirror, he wondered how he could kill time until they cleared out. He stared at the sink basin, the water-spotted knobs, and the soap dispenser with its pink liquid goo. He turned the faucet on, filled his cupped hands with water, and splashed it over his face. The sound of the running water added, to his imminent needs, a desire to urinate. Willie saw flashes of light and dark against his eyelids. He saw faint images of places he'd visited (Yosemite, Las Vegas, Death Valley), women he'd known (Patricia, his mother, and the girl who worked at the theater), and odd moving patterns. He kept splashing until he believed the crowd had dissipated. Then he dried his face with a rough, brown paper towel and looked up at his reddened reflection.

There were still two men at the urinals. He pretended to pick something out of his teeth and noticed that he had soaked his shirt collar through.

The pair left, and Willie rushed over to the first stall. He hurriedly dropped his trousers while struggling with the sanitary cover for the toilet seat. It tore as he fumbled with it, making him crazy. He finally tossed the crumpled tissue paper into the bowl, then turned and plopped down in a single motion.

Instantly, all his anxiety was released. He felt relief like never before. It was the best BM ever, the BM to write home about, the BM he would never forget! God, but it had never felt so good to just shit. He leaned his head back, groped for the toilet paper roll, and tore off a long strip. Willie smiled broadly as he neatly folded the tissue. He even let out a little laugh. He had pulled it off, after all!

Then Willie realized that if someone were to approach the men's room now, they would be sure to see him leaving. The pleasure was replaced by a new anxiety-he needed to get out. He hurriedly wiped and pulled his pants up. The bottom of his shirt caught in the zipper. Willie pulled furiously at the device, whose little vicious teeth had a firm hold on the garment, whose pull-tab felt like a greased grain of sand. The shirt suddenly came loose with a jerk, sending Willie's elbow into the division between the stalls. Cursing, he opened the metal door and strode over to the sink, where he lathered his hands. If they caught him, he would be mortified. He would be dead. He would quit his lousy job and stuff envelopes at home. He would pet his cat whenever he wanted to, and shit all the time.

Glancing quickly in the mirror as he reached for a paper towel, Willie was terrified at what he saw. That same pair of legs was visible in the third stall, only two over from where he had just been! His breath stopped, he didn't know what to do. If he left quickly, the man in the stall wouldn't see him. What's more, the next to use the bathroom would blame the man in the stall for the unpleasant atmosphere. Go, quickly!

But before he could, Willie heard voices approaching. The door was pushed open and he froze. His throat clenched and his eyes began to sting with tears of humiliation.

"Yeah, since lunch," one of the men said. The man wore a name tag, and must have been with the convention though Willie did not recognize him. Willie stood, unable to move, and watched two more file in.

"Whew!" said another, who appeared from his gray jumpsuit to be the janitor. "What a stink!"

The third man, who Willie recognized as the clerk from the front desk, gave the janitor a reprimanding look. Then he rapped lightly on the stall door.

"Sir, are you alright?" he asked, turning his ear to catch any escaping sound. None came. He straightened the navy blazer he wore and told the janitor to climb underneath the stall so they could open the door from the inside.

The older man grumbled as he braced himself against the stall with one hand, got to his knees, and then lowered his body to the ground. He crawled underneath the door, and halfway in exclaimed, "Christ!" Standing inside, threw the stall door open, and jumped back out again.

"It's a freakin' dead guy in there!"

Chuck, Willie's district manager, came into the room just then. As Chuck walked slowly over to the scene, he let out a long whistle.

"Call an ambulance," he spoke to the clerk. The clerk quickly left the bathroom, looking urgent.

In the mirror, Willie could see that it was Art who sat in the stall. His head hung lifelessly to one side and his eyes were rolled back, showing blue-white in the fluorescent light.

Chuck pulled Art's pants back up over his bare legs, which were covered with a thin ginger fur. He looked disturbed, but his voice sounded even as he spoke again. "Arty, you idiot, I said you could stay until the end of the day." He turned to the janitor, repeating, "I said he could stay until the end of the day, to say goodbye to all the guys, but he took off early." Chuck laughed weakly and leaned his head against the cool metal door.

The other man from the convention said to the janitor, "I thought they didn't start to stink for a while. I thought it took a couple of days."

The janitor shot an incredulous look at the businessman. "How the hell am I supposed to know when they start to smell? I'm sure it takes more'n just a couple of hours, though." Here he paused, and looked at the fine pants that the idiot businessman wore. He put his hands in his pockets, and snorted. "Smells like crap, to me."

Chuck approached Art's body and tried to find a pulse. He turned toward Willie. "Did he say anything to you, Will? At lunch, when you sat with him, did he say anything? Did he seem upset, anxious? Oh, Jesus, did I kill him?"

Willie thought a moment. He remembered the missing ring, Art's sudden departure. "No. He seemed alright. But he said the food was shit."

Chuck wrung his hands. "Did you hear or see any movement while you were in here? Maybe he'll be O.K. Maybe there's still time, if it didn't happen very long ago."

"No, nothing. It smelled this way when I came in," Willie announced, and he finished drying his hands, and he walked quickly out the door.