Sunday, September 30, 2007
The Sound of One DWiP Peeing
I just spent a miserable week in my office next door to my scathingly angry boss The Devil Wears Payless.
My temper is like a sparkler- a few moments of sizzle, then a fast cool-down.
The DWiP's temper is more like a nuclear reactor, always simmering white hot, but lethal when released.
Her silent seething this past week has been like working under a cloud of poison vapor gas. My once happy job has now been reduced to bitter drudgery. I have to drag myself to work and ponder her in the next office, adding perceived infractions to the massive dossier she's been keeping on me.
She's getting to me. I feel like I have an anvil strapped to my shoulders.
Like many eccentric, artsy types, I have aversions to certain bodily functions most would hardly notice. I loathe public belching and farting, for instance. And in a public restroom, I cannot stand to be seated next to a loud urinator. It just grosses me out.
So there I was on Friday morning, sitting in my stall having a quiet, dignified pee.
Suddenly I hear the clack of cheap stilettos entering. The stall door next to me opens, I hear the DWiP rustling around, getting ready to pee.
Then I hear the sound of peeing so loud it sounded like someone on a step ladder, pouring a bucket of liquid into the toilet bowl from above.
She bears down.
The sound takes on three distinct notes, so I know she's forcing it so hard she's making three separate streams. The sound abates for a moment. Then here comes another stream, still sounding like a racehorse peeing on a sheet of corrugated tin.
I was frozen to the pot in my stall, worried she could finish at any moment and I'd have to meet her at the sink. But the peeing continues, and I start to imagine her toilet filling to the brim, then overflowing and streaming over to my side and soaking my buttery soft, brown suede mules.
She finally finished off with a few more staccato blasts, then several more moments of steady dripping.
I sat petrified, wondering why The Devil came equipped with a three-gallon capacity racehorse bladder.
I waited until I the sound of her stiletto heels clacked out the door, then I timidly emerged and washed my hands extra long, trying to purge myself of the dirty vapors.
The sound of that pee session was seared into my brain.
I couldn't share my revulsion with any of my co-workers because it would have sounded catty, so I had to sit with cold chills running up my spine and my imagination running wild.
I envisioned the amber alert message flickering over the freeway--warning commuters that a cloud of toxic urea had been released over the freeway near our office.
I felt imaginary dampness in my shoes and thought I smelled ammonia wafting up from them.
I wondered if anyone as provincial as she thought to trim her pubes. Then I imagined her jungle-wild, jet black bush percolating all that urine back-splash under her prim nylon briefs and tight pantyhose.
I've been so grossed out, it's taken me 48 hours to process the unsavory event well enough to put it in writing.
I'm just relieved she didn't have to defecate.