Trapped!
My three-week winter class started today: International Comparisons of Healthcare Systems. The class meets for 3 hours and fifteen minutes per day, five days a week. The professor is really nice, but his delivery isn’t all that smashing. So when he finally let us have a ten-minute break with an hour and a half left, I was really grateful. Rather than going out to smoke like everyone else, I decided to make use of my time Elsewhere (i.e., the restroom).
You have to understand that the building that houses my program was built in 1906, and I have a feeling that the bathroom has undergone very few changes since then. The stalls are made out of about two-inch thick slabs of marble or granite of some type (rather sporty in its day, I’m sure). Given that the wooden doors fit so tightly and have a clearance of only a couple inches from the floor, there is practically no chance of an invasion of privacy. This is an attribute of this antiquated bathroom that I never really minded—until today, that is.
As I entered the restroom, out of nowhere, I briefly recalled a certain mishap I had read on Marvin Miller’s Xanga (see 6/28/06 entry) which included his being locked in the men’s restroom in the middle of a training class for an extended period of time. I brushed it aside, but I couldn’t help but look at the antiquated lock in alarm as it seemed to give off an abnormal sensation of being extra-locked—a premonition perhaps? A mere minute later, I turned the tiny little knob to expedite my release from the suffocating cubicle. I turned it again—harder. When it failed to perform its job, I realized that indeed, I was stuck. Panic began to overtake me as I glanced down at my watch. Five minutes left before class resumed. I madly wiggled and jiggled that lock, all to no avail. I heard the motions of one other student in the restroom, and I began to realize that that person might be my last lifeline.
“I think I’m stuck in here,” I said out loud, hating to give voice to the fear that was burbling up in my throat. No response. Then I realized that my would-be heroine was washing her hands and had probably not heard me. I eyed the bottom of the door and contemplated my chances of doing a belly-crawl under the 3-4 inch space between the floor and the bottom of the door. I promptly discarded the thought, as even a Thin Person would have problems in a space that small. The only thing worse than having to be rescued from a restroom stall is having to be rescued from a Wedged Place.
I raised myself up on my tiptoes until my chin was hanging over the door and waited for the girl to come around the corner. She emerged eventually, and I recognized her as one of two honors students in my class. I said (very loudly), “Excuse me. I think I am stuck in here.” She jerked in surprise at the talking head on the door, made appropriate sympathetic noises with respect to my demise, and then jiggled the door from her side. There was just no help for it. I had been turning the little knob harder and harder with each progressing moment, and my fingers were screaming in pain.
I had been chilled to the bone mere minutes before, but now I was “hot as a biscuit.” Imaginary droplets of sweat made their way down my forehead and cheeks and dropped from my chin onto the floor: plop, plop, plop. I envisioned myself in need of the services of O’Henry’s safecracking Jimmy Valentine (A Retrieved Reformation by O'Henry), but alas, he was neither here nor there.
“I hate to just leave you here,” the girl said. Well, yeah!! I said silently, then out loud, “Please don’t.” I noticed the lock had four screws that took a straight screwdriver, and if I could just have that life-saving tool, I could perhaps rescue myself. I couldn’t think what a straight screwdriver was called, so I said to the girl, “Could you go ask someone for a flat-tipped screwdriver please?”
“I’ll go get started on it right away,” she said. She left the restroom, and I resumed my gut-wrenching efforts to turn the knob. I used my sweater as padding for my poor bruised thumb and fingers, which was absolutely no help either.
In desperation, I wondered what would happen if I turned the knob the other way. So I tried it, and with a soft, antiquated click, it opened. And I marveled at the ease with which it opened, and I’m sure my mouth must have been a reflection of this marvel.
Knowing the rescue team was on its way (no firemen, please), I wondered if I wouldn’t be better off to just climb back inside and let the rescue continue. Instead, I burst out of the restroom and looked both ways down the hall. My heroine was standing outside the teachers’ offices talking with my professor (no less). I got her attention and told her to not worry about it. “It all of a sudden let loose,” I said.
“Oh,” she said. “They [administration] couldn’t figure out what a ‘flat-tipped screwdriver’ was.” [Oops.]
She canceled the rescue mission, and I thanked her for her efforts. She joined me as I walked (almost ran) down the hall toward our classroom.
“That was the weirdest thing,” I said amiably. “That’s never happened to me before.”
Fifteen minutes into the next class session, I realized that I had forgotten to wash my hands. Some days really do need a delete key.
You have to understand that the building that houses my program was built in 1906, and I have a feeling that the bathroom has undergone very few changes since then. The stalls are made out of about two-inch thick slabs of marble or granite of some type (rather sporty in its day, I’m sure). Given that the wooden doors fit so tightly and have a clearance of only a couple inches from the floor, there is practically no chance of an invasion of privacy. This is an attribute of this antiquated bathroom that I never really minded—until today, that is.
As I entered the restroom, out of nowhere, I briefly recalled a certain mishap I had read on Marvin Miller’s Xanga (see 6/28/06 entry) which included his being locked in the men’s restroom in the middle of a training class for an extended period of time. I brushed it aside, but I couldn’t help but look at the antiquated lock in alarm as it seemed to give off an abnormal sensation of being extra-locked—a premonition perhaps? A mere minute later, I turned the tiny little knob to expedite my release from the suffocating cubicle. I turned it again—harder. When it failed to perform its job, I realized that indeed, I was stuck. Panic began to overtake me as I glanced down at my watch. Five minutes left before class resumed. I madly wiggled and jiggled that lock, all to no avail. I heard the motions of one other student in the restroom, and I began to realize that that person might be my last lifeline.
“I think I’m stuck in here,” I said out loud, hating to give voice to the fear that was burbling up in my throat. No response. Then I realized that my would-be heroine was washing her hands and had probably not heard me. I eyed the bottom of the door and contemplated my chances of doing a belly-crawl under the 3-4 inch space between the floor and the bottom of the door. I promptly discarded the thought, as even a Thin Person would have problems in a space that small. The only thing worse than having to be rescued from a restroom stall is having to be rescued from a Wedged Place.
I raised myself up on my tiptoes until my chin was hanging over the door and waited for the girl to come around the corner. She emerged eventually, and I recognized her as one of two honors students in my class. I said (very loudly), “Excuse me. I think I am stuck in here.” She jerked in surprise at the talking head on the door, made appropriate sympathetic noises with respect to my demise, and then jiggled the door from her side. There was just no help for it. I had been turning the little knob harder and harder with each progressing moment, and my fingers were screaming in pain.
I had been chilled to the bone mere minutes before, but now I was “hot as a biscuit.” Imaginary droplets of sweat made their way down my forehead and cheeks and dropped from my chin onto the floor: plop, plop, plop. I envisioned myself in need of the services of O’Henry’s safecracking Jimmy Valentine (A Retrieved Reformation by O'Henry), but alas, he was neither here nor there.
“I hate to just leave you here,” the girl said. Well, yeah!! I said silently, then out loud, “Please don’t.” I noticed the lock had four screws that took a straight screwdriver, and if I could just have that life-saving tool, I could perhaps rescue myself. I couldn’t think what a straight screwdriver was called, so I said to the girl, “Could you go ask someone for a flat-tipped screwdriver please?”
“I’ll go get started on it right away,” she said. She left the restroom, and I resumed my gut-wrenching efforts to turn the knob. I used my sweater as padding for my poor bruised thumb and fingers, which was absolutely no help either.
In desperation, I wondered what would happen if I turned the knob the other way. So I tried it, and with a soft, antiquated click, it opened. And I marveled at the ease with which it opened, and I’m sure my mouth must have been a reflection of this marvel.
Knowing the rescue team was on its way (no firemen, please), I wondered if I wouldn’t be better off to just climb back inside and let the rescue continue. Instead, I burst out of the restroom and looked both ways down the hall. My heroine was standing outside the teachers’ offices talking with my professor (no less). I got her attention and told her to not worry about it. “It all of a sudden let loose,” I said.
“Oh,” she said. “They [administration] couldn’t figure out what a ‘flat-tipped screwdriver’ was.” [Oops.]
She canceled the rescue mission, and I thanked her for her efforts. She joined me as I walked (almost ran) down the hall toward our classroom.
“That was the weirdest thing,” I said amiably. “That’s never happened to me before.”
Fifteen minutes into the next class session, I realized that I had forgotten to wash my hands. Some days really do need a delete key.
posted by Kris at 1/02/2007 11:47:00 PM
3 Comments:
i have to say i am having a good laugh at your expense! lol!! i am sorry! you keep life exciting don't ya?! glad ya'll made it back from your trip safely! hope you have a good week!
Only you could lock yourself into a stall by not turning it the right way. Somehow I knew that was going to be the problem before I even got there.
Kris,
I think your fear of being locked in the bathroom overcame your ability to turn the knob the "other way". How do I know about this? Why, it's happened to me before. In fact, at your church. But, the only occupants were young girls not really interested in my situation at all, thankfully!
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