A true story.

I found myself locked in the bathroom.

This was not my first time in this particular room. The night before, my tiny bladder met a few bottles of beer and numerous glasses of water, so I visited the bathroom quite a bit. I washed my hands with that bar of pink mystery soap countless times. At one point, my companion stuck my hand in his mouth and noted that it did not taste like cigarettes. I credited the aforementioned carnation-colored soap.

But now I was locked in the bathroom. The door knob was missing. I could peer through the hole into the hallway.

What should I do?

My host was deeply asleep, a few rooms away. The air conditioner above his head would surely drown out any disruption.

I did not know his roommates. I was apprehensive about meeting them for the first time while I was wearing transparent underwear. It just seemed…inappropriate.

There was a filthy lice comb on the vanity. “Who has/had lice,” I thought. “Should I be concerned?” I comforted myself with the knowledge that lice reject chemically altered hair.

The red lice comb (“RID” was the logo) seemed like just the sort of tool to free me from the bathroom without the assistance of others. I jammed it between the door frame and the door. No luck. I tried to push the lock open with it. No luck.

I was sweating. Maybe this lice comb was not the ticket. I washed my hands with the pink soap.

I surveyed the window. I could climb out, down to the first floor. I imagined this scenario: I miraculously make it down to the first floor without injury. I walk around to the front door in my see-through underwear. I ring the doorbell. A stranger will answer the door. “Hi, I am a friend of _____. I just locked myself in the bathroom. Anyway…can I come back inside? My pants and shoes are upstairs.”

This seemed unlikely.

I decided to knock on the door and shout. This had no effect.
I was sweaty.
I surveyed the window again.
I attempted to open the window. This will not happen.
I was sweating even more.
I washed my hands again, because the windowsill was dusty.
I sat down on the floor to consider my options.
I could wait in the bathroom until my host crawled out of bed. Surely his first stop would be the bathroom.
This seemed like a bad idea. I have known this fellow for a considerable amount of time, and I have always been impressed by his seemingly boundless capacity for sleep.

I spotted a pair of fingernail clippers on a shelf by the sink. My mind began to envision the possible shape and arrangement of the locking mechanism. I am not very mechanically minded.

I extended various pieces of the clippers. I jammed one extension into the lock and then turned it to the left.

The door popped open!

Freedom. After 45 minutes.

I drank a glass of water in celebration.

P.S. Thanks to JT for sending me the photo of the fancy tree.


One thought on “A true story.

  1. jesus todd says:

    seriously! I would be dead now if it had been me. i would’ve died of some kind of embarassment disease and people would have to stifle their laughter at my funeral. You’re welcome for the fancy tree. Postscript: It’s not quite as fancy as you but it’s giving fanciness the old college try.

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