Locked. The bathroom doors by the Q Gym make faces at me, taunting me and the neon hall pass that swings by my legs. I make my way to the shabby bathrooms by Bliss Gym, hoping to not run into any overeager freshmen jocks en route. I pass the rehabilitation center, the smudged glass windows, and the hallway mural with its off-putting proportions. I walk by the bulletin board where, cleverly, someone has made what was once written as “Bliss Gym” read “Piss Gym.” The corners of my lips curl into a smile as I reach for the handle of the Bliss Gym bathrooms, proud of my trek.
Alas, this bathroom is also locked. I try to jiggle the handle, hoping that it will cave, but it holds still. Oh well, I think. At least I’m getting more exercise!
I begin my journey again, this time with more pep in my step. If I had been let into a convenient bathroom, surely I would have decided to vape in there. Luckily, the considerate administration at my high school decided to take away my privilege to pee, so nicotine was out of the question. In the time it takes me to walk from my gym class to an open bathroom, I muse, I might have ruined my lungs with cherry-flavored air.
My hike continues through the open corridor between C and J buildings, where a refreshing burst of January air snakes down my body. When I return to the lukewarm air and blinding fluorescent lights of J building, I speedwalk by the support labs and the counselors’ office, eager to get to my destination.
Then, I see it—the lower H building bathrooms. Outside of the four-stall complex, I see a teacher with eyes scanning the enticing faux brick wall in front of her. She seems tired—no, exhausted. Her glasses are perched on the end of her nose, almost as if they are about to fall off, and the frown plastered on her face suggests that she is dissatisfied.
How can that be? Surely “Bathroom Monitor” is the title she drowned in college debt for.
I enter the bathroom complex and scan the stalls for an open one. I find only one, so I make my way to it and open the door. A waft of something putrid and the familiar scent of artificial watermelon make me choke as I lock the door behind me. The toilet seat looks filthy, and the angry red of the bathroom walls surrounds me. My legs ache from my Odyssean journey.
At last, though, I can piss.
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