Short Story: Angela and the Toilet
When I turned 31, I decided to move back to NYC, to pursue a graduate career, and to meet better people. I was drowning in debt as my impending 30’s showed themselves as me buying a Miami condo in 2007 with a variable 7% interest rate. That, on top of student loans, made me decide my luck was better in New York.
After sleeping on my friend Angela’s couch for a few weeks, her roommate moved out (preordained before my arrival) and I moved in. Angela is a tiny fiery Italian American who was part owner and manager of the bar below us on the first floor, so she graciously gave her grumpy sleep-deprived friend (me) Friday and Saturday night shifts behind the bar when they became available. I worked for my sister’s law firm during the week, went to graduate classes in the evenings, and spent my weekend days in the school laboratory sequencing snake DNA. I was paying NYC rent and my mortgage in Miami while I tried to find a tenant for my condo in the worst recession in my lifetime. I do not recommend this lifestyle for any sustained period of time. I was basically punishing myself for my slacker lifestyle in my 20’s.
Living above a bar was interesting. Clearly, I couldn’t complain, which I never had any intentions of doing, considering what a doll my friend was for helping me at such a crucial time. But there were times where it drove me nuts. One Sunday night I was trying to fall asleep, and I could hear our (favorite) bouncer downstairs droning on about the Miami Heat in the playoffs that week. I demurely screamed, “Jesus Christ, Justin, SHUT UP!” through the floorboards into the bar below.
Did I mention that my second-floor bedroom also faced the street? And that in NYC garbage trucks like to come at 4am? Fortunately, I was always so tired I had no troubles falling back into my comas.
One night, I think it was a Saturday, during an early evening lull before it got busy for the after-dinner crowd, the lone functioning bathroom in the bar decides to crap out. I would say Angela started freaking out, but this is simply untrue. She was… concerned that a) people would obviously not stay in a place with no functional toilet, and b) if the department of health came there would certainly be fines.
Angela asks me to come with her to the bathroom. Or maybe I just followed her, I don’t know. I could have been curious how she was going to solve this situation.
We close the door, Angela attempts to plunge. Unsuccessful.
Then (I swear on my eyeballs this is true) I watch her SHOVE HER WHOLE RIGHT ARM INTO THE TOILET.
I just stood there, dumbfounded, yet thinking through the implications of her having put a body part in what was undeniably a very, very active toilet, so much so that it had been rendered useless. Would she be able to get her arm out? I didn’t even know you could put your arm in there up to your shoulder… Did she have a cut on her hand or arm anywhere? Would she get a raging flesh-eating infection? Was sepsis a possibility? An STD perhaps? How many hours or days would it take for the infections and fevers to start?
My speechless self stood there while she pulled out a wad of paper towels from the bowels of the silent beast. Et Voila! A functional toilet.
It was then and there that I knew I never wanted to own my own bar.