Be a Sweetie Wipe the Seatie…Or Else!

My email inbox dinged.

Urgent, Women’s Bathroom.

Crack went my knuckles — a nasty habit I developed since taking on this public-radio gig in California. I read on.

Somebody peed on the toilet seat again! I am going to find out who you are. We all need to respect our workspace.

Sincerely, Christine, Operations Manager

Was it me? My hair roots shot up like dandelion bits.

Thirty minutes before the email, I sped to the bathroom, tightening my pelvis as I waddled. My black mini-pumps click clacked against the bric-a-brac floor. I could have peed ten minutes before that. I should have. But in typical workaholic form, I ignored my humanity to the point of near bursting.

I had to hit that bathroom fast. I was on deadline for a radio segment. A congressman’s office was going to call with breaking news on immigration-enforcement legislation. In a single sweep I crouched, did the deed, washed my hands and raced back to to my desk just in time to snag the ringing phone. Wait, did I even flush?

Ding. That’s Disgusting -Monique.

Ding. Eww. this person needs better parenting -Sarah.

I glanced at my pale long fingers. There were a few soap bubbles on my thumbnails. Damn, I didn’t even wash my hands properly. I gently popped them and looked back at the computer screen. Another ding hit my ears like a belt to a bottom.

Ding. Seriously. Wipe the seat if you’re going to use a firehose at work. -James

Do I write a snarky reply, I thought. Rev up some faux outrage? I recalled a recent radio segment I had produced on the country’s culture wars. Americans, en mass, were protesting movies they had never even seen. I won’t be like those protestors, I thought. I won’t join the email chain gang.

But if I didn’t reply, would my silence be an admission of guilt?

I decided to look busy instead. I flipped on the TV to CSPAN and prepared my reporter’s notebook to track the latest vote. I bet Congressmen get private bathrooms, I thought. They can urinate all over the seat in the name of patriotism if they so desire. We hoi poli, on the other hand, must be a sweetie and wipe the seatie…or else.

“You can always check the hallway surveillance camera,” said Simone, the executive producer. Simone always spoke from behind a loose stack of books. So much so, I can’t recall that day’s clothing or if she was even wearing any. She always sounded like this unmoored voice at sea — a pirate’s echo.

Things were getting ridiculous. I’m confessing, I thought. I opened a ‘reply all’ window but closed it in the next breath.

I suddenly remembered I was in an office of creatives. I’d forever be known as some comical wordplay — like pee little pony or Mrs. pee and run. I didn’t want to be the butt of everyone’s jokes after too many martinis at the next holiday party.

I reached for Thomas Friedman’s latest tome The World is Flat from our shelf of review copies. Friedman’s publicist sent the book for an upcoming interview. I had planned to read it that evening curled up with my cat and a carnival-sized glass of cabernet. But I needed the distraction. I broke the book’s crust and read:

The internet

Ding.

is one of the great levelers

Ding.

of the global playing field.

Ding. Ding.

Even Friedman seemed complicit in this public flogging. I felt a twinge near my right eyebrow. I wanted to be elsewhere. I wanted to quit. Seek refuge abroad? I had savings.

“Linda, do you think it was today’s studio guest, Judith Miller?” said Simone’s disembodied voice. (Simone’s genius: Bringing out the genius in others.)

The response she meant to solicit in me: “Ha. Because blaming her for the entire Iraq war isn’t sufficient?”

But I didn’t take the bait. All I could think about was the active witch hunt.

All day, my tongue tasted like gravel. My heart beat between my ears. Still I somehow managed to produce the radio segment and fight the impulse to clear my name.

The snarky email exchanges eventually died down and Simone never checked the surveillance camera (if there even was one).

That evening at home, still shaking, I snuggled with my cat and drank two-buck Chuck (straight from the bottle). And as I did, a brigade of Hegelian thoughts camped out in my brain:

How quickly corporate emails become a funnel for repressed anger.

Why do institutions (like public radio) that promote kindness and inclusivity often reek of cruelty and divisiveness? I suppose it’s the same reason the Buddhists and psychologists are often totally crazy. As a species, we seek what we lack. I guess we don’t ever really run away from our true nature. All that baggage we carry doesn’t just disappear in a flurry of good intentions.

It’s been more than a decade since that dreadful day. I never confirmed it actually was me who peed on the seat. Though my husband just revealed (as I write this) that I have committed the same crime in our home one or twice. Oh my.

Moral of the story: If someone sprinkles when they tinkle…don’t be an asshole. They might just have a lot going on.