Wrigley’s off at the other end of the swimming pool, cackling with one of her old friends.
Me, on the other hand? I’m making another trip to the drink table and trying to figure out what I can have that’s going to keep the buzz going, but not put me over the edge.
Before I can decide, though, Wrigley’s hand is on my shoulder and she’s telling me that we’ve got to get out of here right now.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Someone’s coming,” she says. “Someone our guys in the hall can’t detain or turn around. Grab your shit and come with me.”
I should have known tonight was going to end this way.
I grab my clothes and Wrigley grabs my hand. She leads me to the women’s showers and whispers for me to get dressed.
It’s completely dark in here right now, I can only assume to throw whoever might go to the pool that there aren’t a bunch of recently-naked drunk people hiding in the women’s locker room.
“Did someone grab all the liquor?” I ask in a whisper.
“It’s taken care of,” a man’s voice answers from my left.
I guess we’re all in here.
If it’s a woman coming for a swim, it does occur to me that we’re probably going to give the poor lady a heart attack, all of us crammed in here. I can’t vouch for whether everyone’s clothed or not, the way Wrigley basically threw me into the room.
“If the guards think everyone works here, I don’t know why we’re worried about someone finding us. Everyone’s dressed, right?”
Wrigley answers, “The guards think we work here, but that’s not going to hold up for very long when someone who actually belongs here blows the whistle.”
“Is there a back way out of here?” I ask as quietly as possible.
“Yeah,” someone says, “but it’s in view of the door. If they’re coming down this hallway or they get in the pool—”
The sound of a nearby door opening silences the room. I lean toward the only minor source of light—the crack beneath the door—and listen for high heels.
There are footsteps and they’re coming closer. I have no idea if it’s a woman or a man and even if I did, it’s so dark in here that I couldn’t mount any kind of escape anyway.
What’s worse? I really have to piss right now.
Wrigley’s still holding my hand, so I use that, coupled with the memory of her height relative to mine to lean down and whisper right in her ear. “I’ve got to get out of here.”
There’s no response other than a squeeze of the hand.
The footsteps have ceased, but that doesn’t mean the coast is clear. No doors have opened since the sound of the footprints, so whoever’s out there is still out there.
I’m crossing my legs as best I can and trying to think of anything but water, streams, rivers, lakes, reservoirs, waterfalls, rivers, sprinklers, hoses, bathtubs, sinks, rain, the Pacific Northwest, oceans, swimming pools, showers, warmth, green tea, or the movie Labyrinth, but I wouldn’t have that list if those weren’t the first things that cross my mind.
Wrigley notices my squirming and squeezes my hand again.
In return, I squeeze her hand nine times: three short squeezes, three long squeezes and three more short squeezes. All I can do is hope she’s got at least some familiarity with Morse code.
I feel her other hand on my shoulder, pushing down. I bend my knees and, a moment later, feel her breath against my skin.
“You’re just going to have to hang in there,” she says. “We can’t risk someone hearing you.”
Well, she knows what my ordeal is. That’s got to be in my favor somehow.
But, as I start thinking about tributaries and rivulets, sandboxes and childhood embarrassment, I’m about to my breaking point.
I squeeze Wrigley’s hand again, more frantically this time and she’s immediately pulling me. There is no way for me to know if I’m going to run into something, so all I can do is trust Wrigley to know where she’s going and know how to lead me there without having me end up stubbing my toe on something and, with the resulting profane yell, betraying our presence.
After a few dizzying turns, Wrigley stops and puts her hand on my shoulder again, bidding me bend down a bit.
“Aim for the side of the bowl,” she says. “Sound really carries in here.”
“Thank you,” I tell her. “How am I supposed to—”
She puts something cold and flat in my hand. Before she lets it go, I feel her move it and the screen of her cellphone nearly blinds me.
“Make it fast,” she says, “and don’t use the cellphone to find your way back. Whoever’s out there might be able to see the glow under the door.”
With that, she points at a stall and as quickly as I can, as quietly as I can, I make it inside.
My zipper’s down and ah, sweet relief.
I’m careful to keep a good hold on the cellphone and everything’s going great. That is, right up to the moment when, out of pure habit, I lift one foot and flush the toilet.
Fuck.
Twenty-some-odd people shift nervously in the adjoining room, and I’m just hoping whoever was in the pool room has already left. That pipe dream is shot to shit when I turn around to find Wrigley pushing her way into the stall, telling me to get on the seat and keep my head down.
“She heard you,” Wrigley whispers as she somehow manages to work her way onto the seat with me.
“How does she know the toilet was flushed by someone who isn’t supposed to be here?” I ask.
“Nobody’s supposed to be here,” she answers. “Nobody comes in this late, not to the pool, anyway. Why do you think we wait until after midnight to go swimming?”
She has a point.
“How do you know she heard me?”
“She asked ‘who’s there’ right after you flushed,” Wrigley answers. “How else did you think I knew it’s a woman?”
“Maybe she won’t come in here, though,” I say.
I should really learn how not to jinx things.
There’s a rush of bare feet over the hard floor, everyone’s rushing for the entrance to the hall.
“Be quiet,” Wrigley says and then the door to the showers opens.
Just a fraction of a second later, another door opens from the other side, and I’m wondering how inconspicuous a locked stall door is really going to be if someone walks through here looking for trespassers.
“Who’s there?” the woman’s voice comes, her voice reverberating against the tiled walls.
Wrigley and I hold our breath. The light turns on just as the door to the hallway closes. It sounds like everyone else got out, but Wrigley and I are stuck in here.
Right now, I’m not so worried about anyone else getting caught; I just want to get the hell out of here with Wrigley and not in handcuffs.
“Hello?” the woman calls.
I was really hoping she’d hear the other door close and figure whoever was in here had left, but she’s not giving up so easily. Her shadow is just on the other side of the stall door.
“Thank god,” Wrigley says.
“Who’s in there?”
“I had to use the bathroom and then the lights went off. I couldn’t see anything.”
“Who do you work for? Why are you in here so late?”
“I could ask you the same question,” Wrigley says.
“I’m Paula Owen, I run the company that owns this floor,” the woman answers. “Who are you and why are you in this bathroom so late?”
Wrigley turns and puts her feet on the floor. “I’m sorry, Miss Owen,” she says. “I didn’t know that was you. I’m Janet, one of the new assistants. This is kind of embarrassing, but I kind of have a thing about using public restrooms. It’s a privacy thing. I don’t like going where I think other people are going to, you know, hear anything.”
I really hope that works.
“Janet,” the woman repeats. “Whose assistant are you?”
I whisper, “Intern.”
“I’m sorry,” Wrigley says. “I meant intern.”
There’s a long pause.
“You know you’re not supposed to be in here after ten,” the woman chastises.
“I know,” Wrigley says, “I’m very sorry about that. I just get really uncomfortable if I think anyone’s going to hear me.”
There’s another long pause.
“Well, all right,” the woman says. “Just don’t let it happen again.”