Stall

  Beyond the point of needing a break from his lifeless cubicle, Chet swiftly punched the release button at the merciful end of the conference call. His brain blunted and face numb from the pervasive air conditioning, he surged from his chair and nearly collided with one of his phone reps, a meek young woman named Chloe.

  “Mr. Wa—“

  Chet cut her off without delay. “Whatever it is, it’s going to wait,” he snapped, “I don’t have time to listen to your boohooing over every angry customer. Just handle it. Or go see Josh. He’s not doing anything.” Her eyes swelled in her sockets to the brink of tears as he darted away from her and down the hall.

  His destination revealed the last thing he wanted to see: a yellow “Closed for Maintenance” sign stretched across the restroom door. Nature’s stirring grew more intense within him. He quickly carried his paunchy frame down the closest stairwell.

  Obscenities flew through this mind at the prospect that the downstairs lavatory would be occupied. To his great relief, one of the two stalls was vacant. He latched the door behind him and quickly took care of himself.

  He flushed, recomposed his attire, and proceeded to the sink to tidy up. It was time to think about lunch and not a moment too soon. Those slugs upstairs can’t wait to bug me with issues. Son of a bitch. Chloe better not even think of pestering me. Her and her ridiculous stuttering. I wouldn’t even try to talk if I was her. Jesus, why won’t those idiots in HR let me get rid of her?

  Unexpectedly, the bathroom door refused to budge, relenting for no amount of tugs on the aluminum finish handle. What the hell?

  A flush was heard in the other stall, followed by the rustling of clothing and clinking of a metal belt buckle.  The stall doors were the fully private style with wooden slats. “Hey buddy, do you have a phone on you? There’s something going on with the door out here.”

  Silence.

  “ Hello ?” Chet called, getting only a short echo in return. “Hey, who’s in there? We have a problem here.”

  They refused to answer. Maybe it's one of those hearing-impaired people the diversity police always insist that we hire. Why do we bother with these people?   Chet turn his attention back to the door again. Still stuck. He pounded his fists on it. “Hello! Can anyone hear me?”

  By now, Chet expected the other gentleman would have departed the stall, but all movement inside had ceased. “Excuse me, I don’t know if you’re paying attention but I’ve been banging on this door out here. It’s not opening. Think you could give me a hand?”

  Stillness. The only noise was the faint trickling of water. Jesus Christ, what is it with this guy?

  The nickel-brushed door handle of the stall pivoted briefly then returned to position. “Hey chief, I’d appreciate it if you’d stop playing games. I don’t know about you, but some of us have work to do. I’m sure management will be interested in your behavior once we’re out of here.”

  The door still defied him. Increasingly cross, he kicked it furiously with his right leg, slipping and striking his ankle against the steel frame. A storm of pain blasted through his leg. He wailed loudly, collapsing himself to the floor and clutching his hands around his pulsating foot. “Son of a bitch!”

  The occupied stall was still dead quiet and there was no hint of life behind the slats. Chet suddenly heard chatter beyond the wall. The ladies’ room! He rose back on his feet and grimaced from his bruised ankle, making his way to the wall above the urinal. Muffled female voices permeated through the structure. He bashed his palms into the wall tile repeatedly. “Can you hear me in there? Hello?” He stopped for a moment but their chatter continued interrupted. “Somebody answer me!” The voices faded, followed by the squeak of door hinges. “Fucking bitches!” Chet roared.

  He slogged away from the urinal and yet again to the restroom door. As before, it declined to open. He pressed his forehead to the door in defeat. Sweat trickled down his face onto his dress shirt.

  The latch of the stall door rattled and finally swung open, thumping the wall behind it. Chet limped across the room, his eyes narrowing in fury. “About time, you son of a bitch!” Poised to assail its occupant, the surprise of the empty stall imparted a rush of dread in his chest that spiraled into his throat.  It was clean and static. The toilet rim sparkled as if freshly scrubbed. The water rippling gently in the bowl.

  A ghastly laugh echoed from tile to tile. A blistering wind of force propelled his body into the back of the stall. His head raked violently against the cold steel chassis of the toilet, carving a wide gash from his right eye to the base of this nose. A wave of his blood crested across the toilet seat, splashing onto the wall. Chet shrieked as the stall door crashed shut.

***

  The news of a death radiated throughout around the building. The end of the hallway by the restrooms was roped off with police tape. Chloe had come down with several co-workers to observe, much to the visible annoyance of the investigators. The men’s room door had been propped open by the police. Peering between shuffling personnel, she caught glimpse of an industrial mop being pushed back and forth in a gory pool.

  Building security appeared behind the onlookers and asked them to disperse. Obliging, Chloe followed the crowd back upstairs to the work floor.

  Several officers swarmed Chet’s cubicle. His boss, Janice, was writing something down as they conversed.

  Chit-chat and whispers fluttered in the area.

  He was torn apart, all over the place.

  I bet I know who did it.

  I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner.

  Chloe fanned herself with her hands. Work was impossible at the moment. Passing Chet’s cube, she excused herself to the ladies’ room. Trembling, she doused her face with warm water and gazed into the mirror with a delicate glint.

  “Thank you, Daddy.”