There are footsteps and they’re coming closer. I have no idea if it’s a woman or a man and even if I did, it’s so dark in here that I couldn’t mount any kind of escape anyway.
What’s worse? I really have to piss right now.
Wrigley’s still holding my hand, so I use that, coupled with the memory of her height relative to mine to lean down and whisper right in her ear. “I’ve got to get out of here.”
There’s no response other than a squeeze of the hand.
The footsteps have ceased, but that doesn’t mean the coast is clear. No doors have opened since the sound of the footprints, so whoever’s out there is still out there.
I’m crossing my legs as best I can and trying to think of anything but water, streams, rivers, lakes, reservoirs, waterfalls, rivers, sprinklers, hoses, bathtubs, sinks, rain, the Pacific Northwest, oceans, swimming pools, showers, warmth, green tea, or the movie Labyrinth, but I wouldn’t have that list if those weren’t the first things that cross my mind.
Wrigley notices my squirming and squeezes my hand again.
In return, I squeeze her hand nine times: three short squeezes, three long squeezes and three more short squeezes. All I can do is hope she’s got at least some familiarity with Morse code.
I feel her other hand on my shoulder, pushing down. I bend my knees, and a moment later, feel her breath against my skin.
“You’re just going to have to hang in there,” she says. “We can’t risk someone hearing you.”
Well, she knows what my ordeal is. That’s got to be in my favor somehow.
But, as I start thinking about tributaries and rivulets, sandboxes and childhood embarrassment, I’m about to my breaking point.
I squeeze Wrigley’s hand again, more frantically this time, and she’s immediately pulling me. There is no way for me to know if I’m going to run into something, so all I can do is trust Wrigley to know where she’s going and know how to lead me there without having me end up stubbing my toe on something, and with the resulting profane yell, betraying our presence.
After a few dizzying turns, Wrigley stops and puts her hand on my shoulder again, bidding me bend down a bit.
“Aim for the side of the bowl,” she says. “Sound really carries in here.”
“Thank you,” I tell her. “How am I supposed to—”
She puts something cold and flat in my hand. Before she lets it go, I feel her move it and the screen of her cell phone nearly blinds me.
“Make it fast,” she says, “and don’t use the cell phone to find your way back. Whoever’s out there might be able to see the glow under the door.”
With that, she points at a stall, and as quickly as I can, as qui
etly as I can, I make it inside.
My zipper’s down and ah, sweet relief.
I’m careful to keep a good hold on the cell phone and everything’s going great. That is, right up to the moment when, out of pure habit, I lift one foot and flush the toilet.
Fuck.
Twenty-some-odd people shift nervously in the adjoining room, and I’m just hoping whoever was in the pool room has already left. That pipe dream is shot to shit when I turn around to find Wrigley pushing her way into the stall, telling me to get on the seat and keep my head down.
“She heard you,” Wrigley whispers as she somehow manages to work her way onto the seat with me.
“How does she know the toilet was flushed by someone who isn’t supposed to be here?” I ask.
“Nobody’s supposed to be here,” she answers. “Nobody comes in this late, not to the pool, anyway. Why do you think we wait until after midnight to go swimming?”
She has a point.
“How do you know she heard me?”
“She asked ‘who’s there’ right after you flushed,” Wrigley answers. “How else did you think I knew it’s a woman?”