Occupied

Andrew pushed through the picture of an old bowler hat, swinging open the heavy door. As it slowly closed behind, he forced his way through the next door, identical in size and shape. The clatter of cutlery died away as he was sealed in.

Immediately to his right were two basins with accompanying mirrors. He shuffled past them and walked along the narrow gap beside the stalls. He kept walking and stopped. A large wall blocked his path.

Confused, he back-tracked to the basins. Where was the urinal? There were no hidden passageways, no strange corners. The only door was the one leading out. He eked it open a little, making sure to hold only the top part of the long handle, and peeked out: two walls along the side and one large door leading out to the dining area.

Creeping back inside, he slinked his way to the stalls and remembered they were both closed. He would have to wait.

He stood back from the first stall, shuffling his feet. One of his fists met his hip and he stood like that for around thirteen seconds. He caught his reflection in the mirror and quickly dropped the arm by his side. Now with nowhere to lean, both his arms simply dangled, unaccustomed to such freedom. This is where it would help to be in a gang, he thought. At least they know where to put their stray limbs.

To give his arms a proper job he pulled out his phone and tapped randomly on the buttons. The address book came up. He scrolled through the names and noticed a few who he never spoke to any more. The new task was a welcome reprieve. He began deleting names no longer required, to remove the clutter and free up room for new people. It sounded very cathartic. It also sounded like a good way to waste some time.

The list contained old job contacts, some friends from high school who he'd prefer to never see again, four or five different numbers for a past girlfriend who'd inevitably broken his heart, and a whole slew of people whose names he didn't recognise. It was an old phone.

The task was complete far too quickly and he was soon back to standing and waiting. He decided to slip the phone back into his pocket. This left his hands with nothing to do, so he rapped a few fingers against the the side of his suit pants. Rappp-ta-tat. Rapp-ta-tat. He imagined it sounding much louder than it did.

A new sound visited his ears, a squeaky noise. He stopped his rapping just as the inner toilet door opened up, a newcomer entering his world. With head down and a large bald spots showing, the newcomer moved across the small space quickly before noticing Andrew. He stopped.

'Oh, is...' the newcomer started, unsure of himself. 'Is this the line?' He stumbled over the last few words, changing them to 'A line?'

'Uh,' said Andrew quietly, 'yeah.'

Both men looked away from each other, shuffling their feet, hinting to the other that if there was more space they would happily be occupying it.

The newcomer pressed a hand on the side of the closest basin and leant his whole body against the porcelain. It looked wrong, like when old men try to seem cool. But Andrew chastised himself. Why hadn't he thought of leaning against the basin or a wall? He couldn't exactly do the same thing and lean against the second basin. For one, that would put him in close proximity to the newcomer. Second, and more importantly, it would look like he was just copying, following along. Now he was left standing on his heels, arms by his side, swaying.

He pulled the sleeves of his suit jacket down over his wrists and joined his hands so that they clasped in front of his body. He felt like a bouncer, but at least the pose would let him relax for a while, until the strain on his shoulders would undoubtedly force a repositioning. One of the stalls should be empty by then, at any rate.

The balls of his feet raised and lowered inside his dress shoes, shifting his body weight forward and back, then side to side. He circled his head into the air, stretching a tightening neck.

He blinked.

He blinked.

A slow intake of breath, held, then out again.

The newcomer hadn't seemed to move since melding with the basin - hadn't even made a sound - just rested there, leaning gently, arm out, making a kind of triangle. He probably hadn't even blinked, although Andrew wouldn't have had the gumption to check.

What he did check was the time. Eleven minutes. Surely even a number two would take a maximum of ten. That should be the cut-off, especially when you're out at a fancy restaurant.

Andrew thought about saying something to the newcomer, starting some idle chatter, perhaps about the weather or vague criticisms of the current government – the kind of conversation it would be easy to nod and agree with without much thought, even with a stranger. He even turned his whole body around until it faced the mirror, almost enough to be staring straight at his compatriot.

The newcomer waited until Andrew's body was all the way around before looking up expectantly, as if he'd sensed the turn as it started but was waiting until the right moment to feign surprise. He even pushed his glasses up the ridge of his nose before wetting his lips.

This last part coincided with Andrew doing exactly the same, mirroring the lip lick, and sent him into a full reverse. Soon he was once more facing the stalls, his back to the newcomer, the aborted attempt consigned to the history of the toilet. This made him think of moments in history where toilets played an integral part. Nothing came to his mind, not even likely apocryphal tales. Baths were the closest thing. Perhaps those close to the biggest characters in history were too conscious of the negative effects such a correlation could entail. Or perhaps, more likely, he just didn't know his history. The only thing he'd really learnt at school was that those who don't know history are doomed to repeat it. Ironically enough, it was only those words he did repeat – and often. It was his go-to statement in better company.

What was taking so long? He thought about heading back, like a returning soldier who hadn't seen any combat action. But that empty feeling of having failed the task would be worse than the full feeling of his bladder, which even now cramped his body. He would have to wait it out.

The door swung open, its edge banging against the wall. Both Andrew and the newcomer turned their heads, drawn by the sound, by the emergence of something new into their tranquil surroundings. The new newcomer was short, stocky, with slicked-back hair that didn't quite look right. His face was potted with dimples and a dark tan, the kind you only get by working outdoors. He paused only momentarily to assess the situation before rushing past the old newcomer, who's mouth was slightly ajar, and on past Andrew toward the door of the first stall.

Andrew's heart raced, his breathing quickened. What if the doors were just closed, and not really locked? What if there were no patrons relieving themselves after all? What if the past twelve minutes were for nothing? It was the kind of thing that would have been easier to deal with if he'd been alone, but quite different with a queue – even if it was a queue of one – behind him.

The new newcomer tried the first handle. It made a quiet mechanical sound as he pressed it down.

Andrew held his breath.

A few metallic sounding taps later it was clear the door was locked.

Andrew breathed out, much louder than he'd intended. He was about to look around at the old newcomer to see if it had made an impression but was diverted by the new newcomer reaching down for the second handle.

For some reason it didn't seem so bad if this second stall was unoccupied. At least it would mean he hadn't been completely wrong about the scenario. It might even lead to a faster escape if this new newcomer's enthusiasm outside the stall manifested itself in a reduced duration within.

For a brief moment Andrew thought of how to explain his extended absence to his true companion that night. It wasn't the right impression, not for a first date. And she wouldn't believe there was a line, not for the gentleman's. This thought, though, made him more hopeful that the second obstacle could be overcome quickly. And so, with wide eyes, Andrew watched the new newcomer press down the handle of the second stall. By the time he was tapping the third or forth time, Andrew felt the disappointment loosen his muscles and force a droop.

He heard a quiet exhale from behind. When he turned, the old newcomer lowered his head sheepishly. The fact they were clearly thinking the same thing felt strange and dirty for some reason. Andrew didn't want to connect with a stranger in the toilet, he wanted to do it with his date outside. The word tawdry came to his head, which reminded him of the word laundry. Thinking of hot steam and the smell of linen was at least a slight improvement.

The new newcomer emitted his own disappointed sound. 'Anyone in there?' he yelled, giving the door two loud but controlled thumps. A pause before a muffled squeak of 'Yes.' Rather than take this at face value, the new newcomer stalked the edge of the wall and leant down, looking under the exposed part of the doors. The shake of his head was enough for Andrew to know the result of this reconnaissance.

The new newcomer, who Andrew thought looked like a Jack or a John, returned to the queue he'd jumped. 'A bloody line for the men's!' he spat, standing with arms crossed. 'What is this, the ladies'?' he added, superfluously.

Out the corner of his eye Andrew noticed the old newcomer's faint nod, a kind of polite tacit agreement at a distance. He also noticed how much more animated the man had become since Jack or John's invasion. It was like the new energy and movement had made him more comfortable.

It didn't make Andrew more relaxed, though, just more cognisant of how long this whole endeavour was taking. He checked his phone for the time. It was, apparently, moving forward at great speed. Much faster than this line.

Jack or John exhaled loudly. The echo of his impatient footsteps bounced off the hard surfaces. The old newcomer exhaled a response, mirroring his mentor's actions. Andrew was about to do the same before realising what he was doing and stopped, mid-breath. He let the remaining air out slowly, quietly, and returned his attention to the stalls.

Andrew tried to control his own impatience. Instead of getting upset at the ordeal he had to focus his mind on a logical solution to the problem at hand. This would be his only escape. Even if he didn't come up with an answer, just concentrating on something other than his bladder may be enough to get him through.

But what other ways could this go? You either waited for the stall to be free or you left without completing the transaction. Those were the two choices.

'Come on!' shouted Jack or John.

The old newcomer let out a much quieter 'Yeah,' adding a small cough to clear his throat. Andrew thought that if the other man was a Jack or a John, this man would be a Francis or a Julian.

'How long you guys been waiting?' asked Jack.

'Oh,' started Francis, raising his sleeve and exposing an expensive looking watch. 'Almost close to ten minutes.' He said it like a sore five year old, wanting to go play outside. 'How long were you here before me?'

Andrew knew the last part was directed at him. He wasn't thrilled with the idea of communicating with these gentlemen more than he had to. He decided on a slow head turn with raised eyebrows, hoping to scare the attackers away with aloofness, like a king looking down on his subjects. When he caught Julian's bright eyes and animated face, Andrew knew that his first foray into royalty had failed to achieve any success.

'Hm?' he said.

Francis tapped his watch. 'How long?'

'Oh,' said Andrew. 'I don't know. A while.' Seventeen minutes to be exact, he thought.

'Too long,' said Jack, shaking his head.

'Yeah, too long,' said Francis.

Jack sniffed a few more times. 'I've got me wife out there. I'm only here for her. She always wanted to come here and I kept putting it off. But I said we'd come on our anniversary. That was a few years back now, but I've finally done the deed and instead of being out there getting all the praise and that, I have to stay in here.'

Andrew hoped he wasn't expecting a response from him. He had turned toward the stalls straight after uttering his line, showing the back of his head to the queue behind. Julian should act as a barrier, at any rate – he seemed very keen to discuss important matters.

'That's also my situation,' said Julian, fulfilling Andrew's hope. 'My wife has mentioned over and over how her friends are always dining here and how their husbands are happy to take them out all the time.'

'Ah, didn't wanna be in the bad books, hey mate?' said Jack.

Julian sniggered and let out a quiet 'No.'

'And for some good times later to show her appreciation, ey? Ey? What's the point otherwise?'

Julian smiled and nodded at his master's witticisms.

Andrew couldn't bear the discussion much longer. He'd have to just leave. There was quickly becoming no option. But then what would he do, seated at the table with a date and a bursting bladder? He'd be bent over for the rest of the evening.

'Screw this,' said Jack, 'I'm gonna try the disabled.'

Disabled toilets! Andrew's mind raced. Why didn't he think of that? Did they even have them here? He could have been in and out eighteen minutes ago.

The door swung closed, leaving only himself and Francis. Andrew turned to look at his toilet queue buddy who seemed dejected at the rejection of his mentor. He was clearly already back in his shell. Andrew then shared his attention between the closed doors of the stalls and the rest of the room.

Could he really use the disabled toilet, though? It was certainly true that he was unable to move freely from the pain. Surely that was enough? If a sour looking person in a wheelchair was to greet him on his exit, he could still justify the use because some pain would linger, even after the release.

Without exhibiting his usual caution, he fled the scene, shooting past the shocked reaction of Julian, pushing open the first then second door. There were a number of doors leading off from the small corridor. He noticed a caricature style drawing of a large dress and small umbrella, accurately determining that it signified the ladies toilets. Another door had no insignia at all, possibly housing cleaning supplies. A few steps along the corridor revealed a holy sight. It was the first time he'd, metaphorically at least, seen a halo and bright colours surrounding a wheelchair icon. The sirens of the door were calling him, singing his name. He glided closer and pressed a cheek lightly against the wood, showing gratitude. His momentary delirium faded away as soon as the red occupied notice above the handle hit his senses.

What was he thinking? Of course Jack or John would have made it here first. How stupid had he been? He appeased his self-chastisement by recognising the particular physical strain his body was in, and how that affected the psyche.

His bladder pressed harder against his sanity, the pain shooting through in waves. He bent over until the contraction was complete. Just as he was raising himself once more he heard a noise, like the running of distant water. It subsided quickly, leaving a quiet hum and a few knocks. Eyes widened, he raced back to the men's toilet and was greeted with the sight of a closing stall door and a new occupant near the second basin. The man was dressed in a dark suit with shiny black shoes. But what Andrew focussed on most was the large mop of curly blonde hair covering his head. He looked like he had stepped out from an eighties teen movie.

Andrew stared at him, then over to the closed stall door, then back to The Greatest American Hero. The Hero gave a smiling nod as he washed his hands.

Once the initial shock wore off, Andrew stomped over to the stalls to inspect them himself.

'They're both occupied,' said the Hero, bending his head around the stalls, before adding 'Sorry.' He grinned. It was probably meant as a personable gesture, but instead came across as schadenfreude.

The hum of the hand-drier accompanied Andrew back to his earlier starting position. After the doors swung shut, he was left alone in his queue of one, staring blankly at the doors of each stall.

He shuffled his feet and, once again, pulled out his phone.

© 2012 Ben Safta

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Australia License