When You've Gotta Go...

It's my first solo meeting with one of my clients' and I am supposed to be there at 1:30. I take an early lunch and head over to their office which is only 2 blocks from my office. His name is Art and while I have talked him on the phone before, I have never met them in person. He's a nice older Jewish man who looks like he would be more comfortable sipping mai-thai's on a beach then in an office building in Manhattan. He offers me some water and we get started.

The meeting is going fine, we're talking about this and that when I feel a grumble in my belly. I casually adjust my weight from one cheek to the other, thinking nothing of it...but it starts getting worse. I hastily put my elbow up on the conference room table and prop my head up with my hand.

As he keeps talking about his product, which happens to be eyeglasses, I start losing focus and begin to transfer my attention to the situation that is occuring deep inside my bowels, which is worsening rapidly. I realize that this is no temporary discomfort and that it is only a matter of time before I have to take a break.

The hand that was holding my head up on the table has turned into a clenched fist and my brow is sweating like I've just run a marathon. I begin to squirm, moving this way and that and trying like all hell to supress this anxious turd from surfacing during this meeting but I am fighting a losing battle. After a few minutes of this endless charade Art asks me, quite politely, if I am OK. While I am very far from OK I respond by saying, "Yes, but can you just tell me where the bathroom is?" He flails his arms in contorting directions but I am in a full gallop out the door before he can finish. I power walk through the hall, butt clenched, and see a door that looks like a bathroom and burst right in.

I frantically undo my belt and throw my weight directly on the toilet. Not a second goes by before a cacophony of sounds starts flying from my particular stall as a rush of relief pulses through my body. Amid my 'damage' I must have not noticed the door open because when I opened the stall door a middle-aged woman was standing right in front of me, washing her hands.

"Are you new here?" she asks me with a look on her face that was part puzzled and part horrified.
"Actually, I don't work here." I replied, realizing that I'm the world's biggest idiot.
"Ah, well this is actually the ladies' room. The men's room is right down the hall."
"Yeah, I kinda figured that out."

I return back to the meeting a few moments later and my concerned client asked me how I was feeling. I replied that I was much better and witheld my story about shitting in the ladies' room and making it smell worse than Vlade Divac after a triple-OT loss. Thinking nothing of it we continued with our meeting until Art decided that there was a financial question and beckoned the accountant to come in.

"This is Darlene, the accountant here."
Extending my hand forward to shake hands she turns to Art and says, "Thanks Art, we just met about 5 minutes ago in the bathroom."