Not a Square to Spare
I was at work the other day, sitting in a stall and taking care of business, if you get my drift, when I reached for the paper and encountered only the cardboard spindle.
Uh-oh. Should have checked the paper supply first, like I usually do. What now?
Fortunately, I heard water running in a sink nearby and, for the second time in a minute,. felt vast relief.
“Hello?” I said, a little timidly, aware that restroom tiles tend to amplify every little squeak in the place and not wanting to scare the sh … um, hell out of whoever was there.
No reply. The water stops running and I hear the THUNK THUNK of the paper towel dispenser.
“Hel-LOOOOO!” A little louder this time.
“HEY! A little help here please?” (Now that I think of it, I hope I didn’t say “Can you give me a hand here?” but I might have.)
I hear the restroom door open.
Of course, by now I’m flashing on the “Seinfeld” where Elaine is in a similar predicament and begs the women in the stalll next to her for just a square, only to be rebuffed: “I don’t have a square to spare.”
The door closes.
Now it’s not a big company I work for. I could sit there for half an hour before anyone else comes in. What do I do?
Well, that part of the “Seinfeld” episode is never quite addressed, I don’t think, but I can only assume Elaine did what I did. I opened the stall door, wished for luck that no one would choose that moment to take a leak, and, with my pants around my knees and cursing the foul demon (whoever he was) who left me in such a predicament, shuffled squishily into the next stall, where there was paper, glorious paper, wonderful, thin, scratchy, one-ply, cheap-ass paper.
So when did your life imitate art, or at least a sit-com? When have you said to yourself, “Sheesh, it’s just like being in ‘Two and a Half Men’?”
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