(In case there were any doubts... I can write cleverly on an almost-kind-of-schedule about my boring office life. Take that.)
I've *always* had a very active imagination.
As a child, I would have these weird, vivid dreams that were almost nightmares but they were super-realistic and involved things-that-actually-happened-
Like the night I dreamed that Mister Lucas (yes, the young man from Mensware in "Are You Being Served?") was chasing me up the hill from my grandmother's house, and the only way to escape his demonic bloodlust was to run fast, because we were linked by this inexplicable energy bond where the faster I moved, the less energy was available to him so he slowed down, and vice versa. But if he was moving fast, I could speed up and slow him down. Which was helpful, because dying a horrible, angry death at the tearing hands and pointy teeth of an angry red-eyed Englishman was a terrifying thought. So, of course, the next day I had to walk home from my Grandmother's house, and I took off from her driveway in a dead run to make it home before Mister Lucas even crested the hill. I finally made it home, completely exhausted and too wound up to eat dinner.
As an adult, I still have the weird, vivid dreams that are almost nightmares but are super-realistic and involve things-that-actually-happen-
As a child, I couldn't watch scary movies because I would convince myself that the scariness would come right out of the screen and get me. That glass-and-plastic box was never strong enough to contain the horrors that flashed across the screen. In fact, something that scary could only happen in real life, so it must be happening inside my television and is just waiting for the right moment when my parents are off fixing dinner or changing over the laundry to pop out and scar me for life.
Like in Matilda, which forever doomed me to nervous-hamster-dom whenever I was in a stairwell. Or in Scary Movie 4, when I was convinced that I had to wear the right undies every day in case some crazy horny ghost decided to ravage me in the night.
As an adult, I still can't watch scary movies but have more say over what comes onto my television screen and where I happen to be when something undesirable is on. And, on the off chance I DO watch something scary, I just live with the consequences for a little while and then come to terms with the fact that it was fictitious. Although, I still can't go into my basement in the nighttime or without bright lights (and usually a basement-buddy) because of "Texas Chainsaw Massacre." And I have trouble standing in the bathroom alone looking into the mirror because of "The Long Kiss Goodnight." And that one time we were watching Eureka and the mummy snuck up and placed her hand on Fargo's shoulder just as Boyfriend of Amazingness went to comfort me from the scariness by placing *his* hand on *my* shoulder was kind of petrifying. But I digress.
As a child, I would invent these scary monsters that inhabited different parts of my home and school that would attack me if I turned my back for a moment. They were more than just generic creepers that would slink about in the shadows and jump out to frighten me. They were malicious bloodsuckers with a hunger for human flesh, that could only be quenched by partaking of my pathetic appendages.
Like the couch monster, who likes to grab people as they dangle their just-too-short-to-reach-the-
As an adult, I have pretty much moved past the monster stage. I can sit on the couch by myself with my feet on the floor and be fairly brave. (Unless it's nighttime. All bets are off at night.) I can do dishes almost any time of day. But I still have one problem:
The Flush Man.
The Flush Man is a horrible angry beast that lives in the water trap of the toilet. It's usually calm and quiet. It sleeps peacefully all day, until one pivotal moment arrives:
The flushing of the toilet in an empty bathroom.
And not just any bathroom. The Flush Man rarely inhabits home toilets: It much prefers the comfort and companionship (and choice of digs) found in Corporate Toilet Rooms. I don't know if men's restrooms have them... But I can tell you for certain that every single female restroom I've encountered EVER has one.
Now, this is not for the choice of prey. In fact, I have never had an encounter with the Flush Man when I had a bathroom buddy. No, it much prefers the game of picking off individual victims without witnesses around. It plays a very clever game to entice its prey into its waiting jaws. Almost purely psychological, it goes like this:
At your second-to-most immobilized moment, just after you stood back up and have started to rearrange your clothing, it sends you a mental vibe.
"I'm awake... And I'm waiting for you."
This sets your hands to shaking, so you inevitably bind some piece of wardrobe into another piece of wardrobe, like catching the pretty pink bow on your undies in the zipper of your jeans or tying the edge of your shirt into the tie of your skirt. But you are too flustered and worried to think about this. You MUST exit the bathroom! Let your coworkers see your pretty pink bow. Let them think you got dressed in the back of a pickup. Your life is in *danger*!
You contemplate washing your hands before you flush, but that leaves the awkward scenario for someone to walk in upon where they take off on a rant about the uncleanliness of the restroom because it couldn't *possibly* be you because why would you not flush the toilet and walk out to wash your hands? and so you don't. You put your hand on the doorknob of the stall and you reach out to flush the toilet with the tip of your toes. And just as you make contact with the lever...
"I AM THE FLUSH MAN, KOO KOO KA-CHOO!"
He screams inside your head, glaring his big ugly eyes inside your brain, and you whip the door open, sending it crashing into the stall wall next to you. You run to the sink, make a pitiful attempt at getting water out of the faucet and paper towel out of the automatic paper-towel-dispenser-that-can-sense-fear-and-will-not-respond-to-frantic-hand-wavings-no-matter-how-wet-your-hands-might-be, and finally give up and run out of the bathroom, turning off the light as you go. Because everyone knows that Flush Men can only be lured back to their water-trap domains by turning out the lights so they can't see anymore. (And then you wash your hands with hand sanitizer, but only after you've walked calmly back to your desk and shot a confused look at any coworkers who appear to be wondering in your direction about the hubbub from the potty room.)
Goodness only knows what fate may meet the unfortunate flusher who dawdles after flushing in a public restroom. Does the Flush Man come flying out of the bowl like Moaning Myrtle in Harry Potter, swirling about and creating a doom-vortex around his victims? Does it swiftly and silently flow like water from a clogged drain, and dissolve his victims from the ankles up as they try to dry their hands from his accomplice, the paper-towel-dispenser-of-doom? Or perhaps his bloodlust runs like the werewolves - only at particular moments (like when the flush engages) and goes away once the tank is full, so if you survive those first few moments, you're okay.
I shudder to think.
But even more...
I shudder, because I have to pee.
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