The Worst Part of the Job
The worst part of the job, Trish felt, and she was deadly serious about this, was the bathroom experience. That’s how she thought of it: “the bathroom experience.” First of all, the toilet didn’t have a lid. I mean, really, there oughta be a law. Trish had heard the NPR report about how germs and bacteria burst up out of the toilet and splatter the unsuspecting pee-er after flushing. In this tiny bathroom, no lid meant all that bacteria was simply sprayed into the air with each and every flush. Disgusting. Truly disgusting.
Then there was the low murmur of voices coming through the wall from the neighboring office. A psychiatrist’s office. Trish usually couldn’t make out what they were saying, although every now and then she would catch a word or two. “Colorful” she heard the psychiatrist say one time. “Bright.” Were they discussing personalities or decorating? Trish would never know.
Who could she complain to about this horrible bathroom, she asked herself? Who would take her concerns seriously? Not her boss. No, indeed. He was too stressed out trying to bring in new clients to pay any attention to her problems. She would just have to tough it out. Try not to think about it. Drink less water. The bathroom experience was emblematic of the job she hated. For now, Trish felt like she had no choice but to suck it up. One day, she’d find a new job – a better job -- with a better bathroom. She’d get far away from lidless toilets and whispered confessions. There would be no more repulsive bathroom experiences. She knew what she wanted, and she knew it was out there somewhere: a better job. The perfect job. With the perfect bathroom.
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