On Being in the Wrong Bathroom

A Story by John King

I'm in the bathroom. The wrong bathroom.

Squeaky toys sit behind polished glass in front of me, me squatting with tensed muscles in front of the plastic ducks, the ducks staring at me with wide sliced boiled egg eyes that stare in permanent terror at the stranger on the toilet. Sweat accumulates and quickly evaporates, chilling my back. I am shirtless, my loveless handles frowning at the ducks.

This is bad. This is very bad.

I have pretty terrible asthma and I have to stop looking at the pink curtain draped in the shower to push it back down. This my aunt-to-be's bathroom. I am dead.

I live with my uncle, as well as with my uncle's girlfriend (fiancé? I don't really know). My uncle's super cool. He lets me have my own room for pretty cheap rent and I've never really made him mad or anything. He's really chill. You know. Sports and Stuff. Then… Carmella. Rotten eggs ravage my throat on their journey to kill my nose. She is the most anal person I have ever had to shack up with. That comes from someone whose older brother once stuffed a roll of toilet paper down his throat.

Camilla eats souls, and when her Miss Georgia body can't fit any more of them, she stores them in her fur coats, which she probably got off my uncle's wallet, which she has a tighter grip on than his balls. Who even wears those things in public anymore? She certainly doesn't. Except when she dances around in her room to satanic Meghan Trainor crap. The only conversation she's ever initiated with me (and I've tried to initiate a few to make it less awkward, I swear) went like this:

Camilla; Hey. Listen, stay out of my f*****g bathroom.

Me; Okay, cool.

Camilla; Also, I can smell if someone's been wearing my underwear, so save us both the trouble get it from somewhere else, sicko.

Me; …O-okay, cool.

Just to clear the air, I don’t wear women's clothes, but if I was into that, I wouldn't wear her tacky crap. I thought of that response like a week after I moved in (She confronted me with this stuff my first day).

Camilla; Also, the bathroom across from my door is mine, use the other one.

The wrong bathroom, but not the wrong uncle. My first memories of Ricardo are of my mom chastising him for driving his motorcycle too close to the children, thereby being guilty of being too radical. I’ve never understood his attraction to Camilla (but for health reasons, I try not to ponder on it too often) - I mean, he’s pretty cool, but it’s not like he’s a satanist or anything.

Camilla, however, also has a rocking bod. So, I mean, you know… Sports and Stuff.

I’m doing fine with breathing for now, and I try to finish up so I can get out of here as soon as possible. The dragon lady isn’t here. She’s not here. It keeps me calm, and soon I can get up. I pull up my pants and flush. I move to the sink, but go back to make sure no fecal sediment. I know that sounds weird, but I don’t want to give her any reason to get paranoid.

I’m going back to the sink when I see it. A shadow that wasn’t there before has blocked out the light of the hallway.

I immediately jump into the tub and drape the salmen curtains around me much too loudly.

Come to think of it, I can’t remember seeing the two of them in the same part of the house at the same time. I guess they get some, I mean my uncle’s no push-over so he has to be getting something out of this hell.

© 2016 John King

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Featured Review

Stan Lee

I'm just sitting here giggling my head off like a little kid tbh. Come on, consider it from my point of view. You'd find it funny too! :) The ending was a bit sudden John. Did you see anything apart from a shadow that made you jump into the tub? Also you called her Carmella at first. Typo I guess. This is a potentially hysterical scenario I believe. I hope we get more! :D