Exit Strategy

A few weeks ago, that which I fear most came to pass.

It was a Friday afternoon at the office. Many employees work from home on Fridays, so it was pretty quiet. I wasn't feeling well after an Indian buffet trip the previous night. Normally, I am an avid avoider of public toilets, let alone at work. There is something unprofessional about squatting in the workplace. Sadly, I was given no choice this day. It was coming whether I wanted it to or not.

I cautiously opened the bathroom door. The motion-sensored lights snapped on to reveal an empty, clean men's room. I grabbed a toilet-liner and headed for the furthest-away stall. Preparing everything with as much dignity as possible, I sat down and went about my business.

I didn't think anyone would actually come in, but I made several courtesy flushes just in case. Bathroom etiquette is very important.

Everything was proceeding as well as could be expected. I was quite pleased to have privacy for this delicate moment. And then it happened...

The overhead lights snapped off.

I stifled a scream.

With no windows, it was pitch black. Thoughts flooded through me.

Is someone in here? Dear God. Say something!

"H-hello?" I squeaked into the darkness.

Maybe the janitor shut the lights off... maybe it's five o'clock already... no... it can't be... I would have heard the door open... unless someone snuck in here...

I shivered. My mind reeled with the possibilities of knife-wielding killers slipping into the men's room. Of mindless zombies shambling under the stall wall and feasting on my exposed flesh.

I'm going to die. I'm going to be killed. At work. In the bathroom. In the dark. On a toilet. Smelly and alone.

My corpse will be discovered on Monday morning. Slumped over. Pants around my ankles. Flies everywhere.

I was sitting in the utter darkness, panicked and sweating through my dress shirt.

Just breathe. Calm down. Don't be an idiot. Nobody is in here. You're alone. Killers don't come into company bathrooms to murder people, and even if they did, they wouldn't do it in the dark... right? Right. So who turned off the lights...? Nobody. They're automatic you retard. You're taking too long and they went off. Everything's fine. Just move around and they'll come back on.

I waved my arms around my head.

Nothing.

I stood up.

Nothing.

I shuffled towards the stall door, pants around ankles, arms waving like an angry chimp.

Nothing.

Are the lights tied to the bathroom door somehow? I can't just waltz out there like this. What if someone comes in while I'm here? How am I supposed to explain why I'm sitting here dumping in the dark? They're going to think that I'm a killer. Okay. Be cool. Maintain. Just finish your business, get dressed, and get the hell out. Everything's fine.

I found my way back to my seat and reached for the toilet paper roll atop the empty dispenser.

Thump.

I knocked it to the ground and heard it roll softly into the darkness beyond.

Noooooo!

I got down on hands and knees, pants and belt buckle scraping against the tile floor as I crawled around in blind pursuit. I wasn't finding anything except a mysterious moisture on the floor. I fought back the urge to vomit.

This can't be happening. Any second someone is going to come in. I'm going to be the sick, smelly, psychopath crawling around on the bathroom floor, pants down, ass up, in the dark. It will probably be the CEO too. The fucking CEO is going to stroll in and see me like this—I know it. I'm going to be fired immediately. Possibly arrested. I'll never find another job again. There's no bouncing back from this. I have to get out. I've been in here for like an hour. Just get the fuck up, pull your fucking pants on, and get out before anyone sees you. It doesn't matter if you're not done. You can come back later and tidy up. When the lights are on. Or wait till you get home. Just get out. Pull your pants on and get out. GO! Run bitch, run!

Survival instincts took over. In one fluid motion I got up, got my shirt tucked into my pants, buckled and zipped up, found the stall latch, unlocked it, burst out of it and ran towards the exit in complete darkness. I stopped short, found the bathroom door handle, yanked it open, squinted at the sudden light burst, then erupted towards my cubicle, never looking back.

When I got to my cube I was panting heavily, disheveled, sweaty, and visibly rattled. Adrenaline coursed through me. I couldn't sit down and pretend to work any more. I'd had a near death experience—didn't I deserve the rest of the day off? I sanitized my hands, got my coat, and left the building in disgrace.

When I got home the first thing I did was take a shower and do laundry. I thought I could wash the horrors of the day away, but sleep came uneasily, and I dreamed the whole event happening again.

The moral of this sad story?

Always have an exit strategy.

Oh, and no Indian buffets.

Lost in Translation

I spent Christmas with my family in South Carolina. As always, it was a wonderful time. This year was even better. Why? To make a long story short, my cousin Eric married a woman from Brazil. Due to visa issues, she was unable to come live with him in the U.S. for the past 3 years. She has been living in her small village with her 2 teenage children from a previous marriage, and their new baby girl, Analisa.

This year, right before Christmas, they were finally able to come to the United States. Right before all of this happened, my mother found Eric—who was out of work for years—a good job at her hospital down south. He made plans to leave Boston and move there immediately. Eric and his Brazilian family had less than a week to fly to South Carolina from their respective locations, find a place to live, and acclimate themselves to a very different environment. Did I mention none of the children speaks a word of English and they'd be expected to start high school in January?

My mother knew this was going to be a difficult transition for all of them. She helped look at houses/apartments, buy furniture, chauffeur, and much more. She also invited the whole family over to have Christmas dinner with us so they wouldn't feel alone. Eric's wife Maria spoke English very well, so hopefully she could translate for the kids. Not wanting them to feel entirely left out, my mother looked up dozens of phrases in Portuguese so that she could talk directly to the kids a bit. She also printed out Portuguese labels for each of the food dishes, so they would know what they were eating.

Bless her, she really was trying.

I admired her thoughtfulness and wanted to help. I downloaded an English to Portuguese translation app on my smartphone and we decided to give it a try. My mother spoke several phrases into the microphone, and it returned with Portuguese translations, which we wrote down. Things like:

"What would you like to drink?"

"Would you like more turkey?"

"White meat, or dark meat?"

"Leave room for dessert!"

Having written down the portuguese translations, I instructed my mother to speak them back into the microphone, and verify that we had them correct.

"Why don't you try 'what would you like to drink?'" I suggested.

In her best accent, my mother began her butchery of the language.

O que você gostaria de beber?
Hanking, wanking, salamandar!

After 10 minutes of gut-wrenching laughter, she tried again. 

O que você gostaria de beber?
Mother of booklets!

Another 10 minutes of cackling. I suggested she try another phrase—"How about 'Would you like some turkey?'"

Gostaria der ter a turqueria?
Take it outside, Turk!

Gales of laughter.

Gostaria der ter a turqueria?
I'm getting angry now!

"How can this be?!" My mother howled, wiping tears of laughter away. "I'm saying it just like it's written!"

"You're an idiot." My father interjected. "Let Josh try it. He'll do it right."

My mother handed me her sheet of Portuguese and the smartphone.

I've taken several years of Spanish class. I thought that might better prepare me for the task, but I was wrong. I took a deep breath and tried "Do you prefer white meat, or dark meat?" 

Você prefere carne branca ou escura carne?
The Cookie Monster lives in Berlin?

More hysterics.

Você prefere carne branca ou escura carne?
Hacker boys, upload your photos!

"What the hell are you guys doing?" My brother barked. "Let me try."

I gave him the phone and translated phrases. He tried his hand at "Would either of you like gravy?"

Ou iria-vos como molho?
Terrible youtube dragons!

Cackles all around.
 
Ou iria-vos como molho?
Would you like a punch?

It got better and better as the day went on. At one point my father gave it a try and came up with Would you like lampshades made of feet?

We decided it would be best not to talk directly to the children for fear of what we might say. It made for a classically awkward family dinner. But when Silent Night came on the radio, we couldn't help giggling at one another.