A Full bladder weighed heavy on my loins and there was only one way to relieve it. In the brightly lit staircases of the library, I walked to the ground floor where I knew I would find the Five Stalls. In these stalls lay 85 years of urine, fecal matter, and the symptoms of unborn babies. Now, for 85 years, these toilets looked up to par. I guess strong pipes developed after, so many years of eating groceries.
Anyhow, I selected stall #5- the handicap. Here was a world un-imagined. Here the 300 pound and up club could walk without a wobble. Here the squatter could bend without hitting the knob. And here, the stench of the unmentionables was lined against the wall an arm’s length away. So, without further ado, I did my do. Patrons continued to go in and out, all underneath the observation of the Jacker. The Jacker, you know, the homeless guy who sits outside the restroom pretending to read a magazine. Then goes to the men’s restroom, which is a halls-length around to relieve himself. But, that’s not the focus here. The year was 2012 and everyone was going to hell, and apparently (*lowers voice) someone didn’t get the mail. There I was washing my hands and there was another woman at the sink. She didn’t look crazy, at least not my definition of crazy, nor did she smell like it. At around 5’5, she was average height. She was Black, had ringlets of curls, and was casually dressed in a t-shirt, with jeans, and she appeared to be “there”. I had heard her prior, while I was in the stall, and we both came out around the same time. I didn’t normally listen in on conversations, but this one had a sense of urgency. The conversation befell on my ears and I tuned to hear.
Did you get the letter?
I tried calling, they won’t call me back!
The government, they after me.
I don’t know girl, the FBI!
I didn’t know either. I started looking left, then right. Next thing you knew, I picked up my phone and called Ice!