“The 4th floor bathroom needs you right now”
That, friends, is the subject line of an email that I received yesterday evening.
One of the occupational hazards of writing a blog about the men’s room in your building is that, inevitably, some of your co-workers come to regard you as some sort of Bathroom Batman, ready to swoop in and save the day.
Don’t get me wrong...I appreciate a good tip. Letters from in-building readers have alerted me to all sorts of developments--some good and some very, very bad.
But when you stumble across a crime scene, you should call the police, not a reporter.
If a co-worker--probably the one with the mysteriously-placed anus--has sculpted his masterwork in the fourth floor men’s room, call facilities. They have the equipment, training, and intestinal fortitude to deal with such art installations.
Of course, I couldn’t resist a drive-by. Yes, it was horrible. No, I cannot explain it. As I’ve said before, there is no position into which I could contort my body to paint on that portion of the canvas.
We fear the artist we cannot understand. And yet, on some level, there is quiet respect for his unspeakable “gift.”