Flushed Away

Here's the thing.

Does anyone like to go to the bathroom at work? I mean, really?

Maybe it's just me.

My place of employment is an octogenarian. In fact, I deem work Octogenarian. God bless the buiding in all its splendor, but damn the place is a crusty old man. With improper plumbing to say the least. My floor is the worst offender of the lot.

So how in the world can that make the bathroom at work better? It doesn't. We call Facilities at least once a day, and here's why.

In the not-to-distant past I was said bathroom during the early evening hours. And I was not alone. I hear footsteps on the cold, hard floor, then the lock clicks on the door two stalls down.

Fine. Great. Everthing's good.

Until mere moments later I hear a flush, the panicked scream, "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god..." There's the slam of a door opening and the clickety-clack of a guilty perp fleeing the scene.

Still in the prime of Summer I look down at my flip-flopped feet and see dirty bathroom water rushing towards me. It creeps along the floor at a record pace, daring me to remain untouched by the in-san-i-tary of it all.

Will I make it?

Will I survive?

More imporantly,
Why can't the building fix the god damn plumbing situation?!

Thanks to quick reflexes and the sweltering heat that put me in an easy cotton dress, I escape in one clean piece , but will remain forever in fear of Stall #2.