| 2 On my small walkie-talkie, Ralph, who obviously showed up this morning, tells me that there is a plugged toilet on the 20th floor. I thank him for informing me, but I really want to strangle him. Why is it that I always have to unclog the toilets? Sure, it could be worse. I truly feel sorry for janitors in elementary and high schools. Children always find a way to leave a treat behind, whether it be a brown treasure in a toilet bowl or discarded condoms on the floor. I walk reluctantly to the elevator, without so much as a look at the receptionist on the way out. I press the up button, and I wait for the elevator. It�s only when I arrive that I understand how horrible the situation is. The toilet is not only plugged, but it is spewing water like Old Faithful spews steam. The floor is covered with several inches of contaminated water. An awful gurgling noise is being made by the suspect toilet; it sounds like someone gasping for air. I sigh. The day is never complete without at least one toilet mishap. I pull out my trusty plunger and I get to work. Placing the plunger over the clogged hole and pulling with all of my might, I hear quite possibly the loudest popping noise I have ever heard. I stumble backwards a few steps before I can regain my balance. Clive Hamilton: everyone�s hero. The day has been saved from utter destruction... yet again. I start to mop up the huge spill as the water seeps into my shoes. My socks stick mercilessly to my feet like a second skin. I don�t know how much more of this I can stand. All of the successful businessmen and women are scampering around without a care when it�s people like me who hold everything together. I�m the glue that keeps this flimsy building from falling apart. I�m the worker bee in this huge metal hive. Before I realize it, most of the puddle has disappeared. I place a Danger sign over the slippery floor and I dump the water from my bucket down one of the sinks. Pipes groan under the stress of the water. Looking at my watch again, I see that it is now 11:15. Only forty-five minutes are left until lunch time. I wheel my cart out of the washroom, and I start down the hall. Damn! I forgot to replace the toilet paper rolls! I don�t need to lose my job like Ralph almost did. With several rolls in my arms, I leave my cart in the hallway and I return to the washroom. I move from stall to stall as quickly as possible, balancing the rolls in the crooks of my arms while I fight with the toilet paper dispensers. As I step into the final stall, I hear someone enter the washroom. His shoes create a soft click-clack on the tile floor. I smile. It sounds like he�s wearing high heels. I hear the door close, and immediately, the door opens again. The second man�s shoes are more quiet than the first man�s, and I assume he�s wearing running shoes. �Are you Joe Lipski?� one man asks. His voice is deep, similar to Barry White. I bet he gets all of the ladies. There is a strange noise. It sounds like one of the men slipped on the wet floor. I step forward to tell them to be careful, but something stops me. �What do you want from me?� a higher voice asks. �Just tell me where it is,� the first man says calmly. I step backward again, and I close the stall door. If this is going to turn into a fight, I don�t want to be caught in the middle of it. �Where what is?� the second man asks, and he starts to cry. The first man laughs and replies, �You know what I mean. Don�t make me threaten you, little man.� In between sobs, the first man starts to shriek, �Put that away! Don�t hurt me, please! I have a wife and afamily. I�m rich. You can have anything you want!� His desperate plea causes goose bumps to form on my arms. The guy with the Barry White voice is really going to hurt him. He probably has a gun. Oh my God. Please don�t find me in here. I step onto the toilet seat and my legs start to shake. �You�re a pathetic pile of puke, Joe. Can I call you Joe?� the first man says and laughs again. I can see a shadow moving around from under the stall door, and since I cannot hear anyone�s shoes clacking, I can only assume that it�s the threatener. �P-p-p-please!� the victim stutters, and there�s a loud thud. �Tell me where it is, Joe. I haven�t got all day.� �I don�t know what you mean!� �The package, Joe. The package you received today. The one that has the drugs in it,� the first man says and there�s another thud. The victim cries louder. �I don�t know what you mean, God damn it!� the second man screams. �You don�t know who you�re dealing with, Joe,� the first man says calmly and I hear a gunshot. My legs give out, and I�m forced to lean on the stall to support my weight. �Who�s in here?� Oh, no. He heard me. He�s going to come for me, and I�d have no way to protect myself. I�ve never been a religious man, but it�s times like these that make me wish I was. Just be quiet. If I�m quiet, he�ll leave. He�ll walk out of the door, and then I can go for help. The shadow moves toward the stall door and I can see the murderer�s feet. He is wearing, like I suspected, old grey running shoes. I cover my mouth. Don�t scream. Oh, please don�t scream. Just breathe, that�s all you can do. Breathe and pray. The feet continue down the row of stalls, and I hear the door opening quickly. I stand motionless for some time before working up enough nerve to step off of the toilet seat and stand on the floor. There is complete silence in the washroom. Carefully, I peek under the stall wall, and I see the dead man lying a little to the left. Having being blessed with a strong stomach, I casually look in the other direction. No one else is in the washroom. I open the stall door, and I look around. Joe, who is lying with his back to a wall, is obviously dead. There is a long stream of blood pouring out of a gunshot wound in his forehead. It seems a little absurd - the man wanted to know where the package is, and yet killed the only one who knew where it would be. I wonder if the man really was Joe Lipski, or if he was just some helpless, terrified man who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Glancing into each stall, it is clear that the killer is not hiding inside the washroom and that he has long disappeared. I just wish that I could have gotten a good look at him before he ran away. Of course, that would have meant my death. I push my cart as quickly as I can to the elevator, and press the down button several times. �Come on. Why is it so slow?!� I say impatiently. It seems like the elevator is taking ages to come down to my floor. I look up and down the empty hallway, expecting at any second that the killer would come from around a corner and see me waiting for the elevator. Finally, after what seemed like hours, the elevator doors open. I look inside. Page 3 More Stories Lair Homepage |