It's finally quiet. The farting of the next stall has finally ceased and the perpetrator gone. He took a hell of a long time but I waited him out and by God it was worth it. I've been holding this one in for some time.

I tried to go earlier. Tried several times in fact but each time presented an unavoidable obstacle and I had to retreat to my desk or closest stairwell. They'll never follow me in here, I thought. Except when somebody does and I'm forced to walk up a flight of stairs only to be followed to the next bathroom by an Indian programmer with pleated khakis and oversized Polo shirt. I wanted to turn and yell at him for following me. What're you insane? Why are you following me? Can't you see I'm going in here and that following someone into the bathroom is the action of a sociopath? I bet you're just going to open the stall door next to me and shit without a second thought too? Maniac! But I don't say a thing for I don't go into the bathroom in the first place.

I never go into bathrooms I'm about to defecate in if I feel a presence behind me for they might go in after me. And then what? Then what am I going to do? Instead I continue on my way as if I had no intention of using the bathroom at all. Wandering from full bathroom to full bathroom is better anyway. A weak sphincter is a useless sphincter if you ask me.

However, even if I'm lucky enough not to have to abandon my walk into the bathroom for fear of being followed, the obstacles aren't over. Far from. Getting in the bathroom is only the beginning because once I'm in there I'm susceptible to any number of maladies that face me.

First is the easiest and occurs when I enter the bathroom and see a pair of shoes and trousers resting on them below the stall. My heart sinks immediately and though there's a second stall I have no intention of using it. Just imagine sitting through the entirety of another man shitting next to you--shoes just inches apart. Hearing his every breath. Worst of all is that awful sound of absolute pleasure, that sigh, upon relief into the porcelain bowl.

All this is coupled with the fact that I'm a fast shitter--something I'm quite insecure about. And how is it that people poop for so long? I've never understood it yet because of it I've found myself sitting on the toilet longer just to trick people into thinking that I take just as long of shits as the next guy. Imagine your father doing this. Sitting without a newspaper or magazine, without anything but a bare stall wall to stare at just so a complete stranger won't think his shits don't take near enough time. How can I ever have kids? What would they think? The shame I'd bring them if they ever found out they took longer, manlier craps than their old man. They'd stage the "I can now beat up my Dad" rebellion in elementary school.

What's worse is that even after seeing the trousers and I accept I have to give another bathroom a try I still can't leave. There's a receptionist that sits just to the left of the entrance to the bathroom and she's obviously watching my every move. Aside from logging how many times I use the bathroom a day she's also timing my stay in the bathroom.

I of course can't let on that I came to the bathroom to poop only to see that the stall was full and left. That would lead her to believe that it had been my purpose to poop all along. God forbid. Therefore I must stay in the bathroom for the approximate time that urinating might take and the best way to measure this is to actually step up to the urinal, unzip, and hang my penis out in the air uselessly.

And in all this I must not forget about the person in the stall who is monitoring my every move. So I gently shake my belt to let him know that yes, I am in fact peeing-- that yes I did actually have my pants undone for my penis to pee and that I'm not just standing here wondering how this had all come to be so natural. After a time of reflection on when I should kill myself passes, about the time the average male urinating session lasts coincidentally, I zip, wash my hands and head back to the hallway where the sexy Persian that fashions a pony tail whenever she wears heels clocks me out.

Another situation that presents itself involves a person already at the urinal when I enter. Unfortunately the designer of the bathroom was a selfish snot nosed debutante that enjoyed bathroom networking and has successfully created a perfect hell for the "me's" of the world--those of us that like to poop in peace and quiet. Those of us that prefer pooping alone to reflect on events past and events to come and make all the noise we want without hesitation or impedance.

This bathroom, however doesn't allow for one to sneak into a stall without those at the urinal or washing their hands seeing you. Because of this huge design flaw, and not because I'm a lunatic and can't bare the thought of someone seeing me enter a stall, I have to continue to the urinal and try to wait them out. Logically, since they've already been at the urinal for some time, they should be rapping it up fairly soon and if I take my sweet time unzipping, squirming, clearing my throat, coughing, grabbing at that ache in my neck, whispering stupid zipper they'll wrap up their business and I can sneak into the stall as soon as they head out the door.

Sadly, on one such occasion this plan crashed so hard in my face that I've nearly abandoned it's methodology entirely.

It was a Tuesday and I had held off until after four to start venturing out in search of an empty bathroom. I always try and avoid pooping between 12:30 and 2pm when the bathrooms become busy airline hubs for the businessman's racing bowels. At no point is the bathroom empty, let alone a single stall, and when caught in there during rush hour I can't bare to hear all the one-liner innuendos about it being " really backed up in here."

My hope for an easygoing late afternoon visit to the lavatory became arguably two or two hundred of the most awkward minutes of my life. Time had stopped and no amount of coughing could make it go any faster.

It started out at as any other trip to the bathroom, long overdue and meticulously scrutinized. But I made it in without too much flak from the receptionist and upon entering an older guy I worked with in some capacity was already at the urinal. Though not ideal, I did the normal steps and casually sidled up next to him.

He greeted me with a, "How are yah?" and I responded for whatever reason with an, "outta breath."

We were off to a bad start but he seemed to ignore the inexplicable comment and we carried on with the business at hand. I unzipped slowly and undid my belt. Yep, nothing out of the ordinary going on here, just two guys having a pee. However, as I stood there it was growing intensely clear that his stream was far from letting up. I had already gone through my normal ritual yet he hadn't budged, which conveniently allowed me to realize that it was not only the quietist bathroom I'd ever been in but the quietest bathroom ever constructed--a marvel of modern architecture. The Sydney and Walt Disney Opera houses had nothing on the acoustics in this place. And my urinal couldn't have been quieter nor my bladder any drier.

Time was frozen and still not a single drop no matter how hard I forced it. And what's this? What's this fresh hell? Another person joining the ranks? Two open stalls for the taking and he decided to stand behind a guy with his tapped dick in hand.

It had to end. It was a war I wasn't going to win. I was naive to have thought I could have in the first place. He was a completely unknown enemy and his resources were boundless. So I cut my losses, zipped and left.

Now when I'm walking down the hall and we pass I can no longer face him without thinking about the fact that deep down he knows he stood next to some weirdo whose name he'll prefer to never know at a urinal for the span of two or more minutes and didn't pee. Positive that I was checking out his package and that I'm some office pervert that gets off on urinal spying. Why couldn't I just go in the damn stall?

And the stall is where I'm at now.

Finally knowing sweet relief. The toil and stress of running around looking for an empty bathroom releases into the 1.2 gallon per flush American Standard and I enjoy every second of it.

The post shit quiet resounds off the walls and I smile in contemplation. It's calm and collective. A perfect time of serenity. Complete quiet until I say so. Until I create the gentle jingle of my belt as I move to begin the wiping process. Everything is all right in the world and once I'm thoroughly clean I pull up my jeans in satisfaction. But as I'm about to step out of the stall I hear the bathroom door open up and I freeze. I slowly creep back to the seat and hunch over a bit so he can't see the top of my head. I listen for some signs and it seems like they're headed to neither the urinal nor the stall. I hear instead the unzipping of a bag and spraying of a sink.

Oh god no , I think. Oh please don't do this right now. Please don't start brushing while I poop.

But he doesn't stop. He continues to brush and he continues to floss and I'm stuck in the stall to listen-- hovering over a toilet where I just flushed away my fleeting moment of happiness.

© 2007 Tyke Johnson