A Close Call

I have always had a fear of dropping things in the toilet. It happens to everyone at some point in their lives, and it serves as a reminder from the universe to put the lid down when not in use. The lid thing doesn’t apply to public toilets, however, so we must each be hypervigilant about items in hand or in pocket before the big flush spirals down.

I’m still haunted by the time when I fell in the toilet. I was about five, and a petite little girl. It was night, and I had to get up to pee. I remember I wore a long cotton nightgown which I was unable to pull up all the way to avoid getting it wet. I tried to balance on the edge of the seat, but I fell back and into the toilet bowl. My nightgown was sopping, and I needed help to dislodge myself because I am pretty sure my feet didn’t reach the floor. I wonder if I began wetting the bed after that.

When I was in college, my roommate accidentally dropped her new ATM card in a flushing toilet. We used to open our mail in the bathroom because we didn’t have cell phones then. If my memory serves me correctly, she had to contact the bank to have the card replaced, and when she received it in the mail, she opened it on the toilet and accidentally dropped her new ATM card in the flushing toilet.

I flushed a tube of toothpaste one time. I also dropped in a hairbrush, but it didn’t go down, and I had to fish it out and throw it away.

At our old house, my husband lost his wedding ring to a toilet when it flew off his finger mid-flush and swished down the bowl. Interestingly enough, he actually got his ring back a few years later. We had sold the house and moved to our current home, but the people who bought it were having some trouble with the upstairs bathroom. A plumber came and snaked their toilet, and voila! He found my husband’s ring. They delivered to his office. I have a feeling he tossed it in a drawer, where it sits as useless as it did in the toilet pipe.

I am going somewhere with this.

Recently, my daughter, S, and I went to the movies. We saw the Oscar-nominated Brooklyn, a beautiful and rather long story of immigrants from the 1950’s, give or take a decade. It was a lovely movie, and I didn’t want to miss any of it by taking a trip to the restroom. When the movie ended, I race walked to the closest bathroom before my bladder ruptured.

I sat down on the toilet and looked over my phone, as is the custom. When I finished, I stood to pull up and zip my jeans. I stuck my phone in my pocket, and as I leaned over to flush the toilet, my phone fell out of my pocket. Panic ensued.

As the water churned around the bowl, I stood frozen and watched. I didn’t see my phone under the water. Maybe it didn’t go in the toilet. Maybe I got lucky.

I glanced down at the floor in my stall. No phone. Where the fuck did it go? I lifted one foot, then the other. Nothing. I checked my pockets again. Empty.

I’m not proud of what happened next.

I squatted down to see if my phone went behind the toilet, which it hadn’t. So I peeked at the floor of the stall next to me. Bingo.

Only it wasn’t on the floor between the two stalls. It was in the center of the floor of the next stall, just out of my reach. I got down low. On my knees low, on a public bathroom floor. I darted my hand under the dividing wall to grab my phone. I didn’t think about anything else, only that I found my phone, and I was reclaiming it. I stuck my hand under the wall, between the feet of the lady next to me, and retrieved my phone.

She lifted one orthopedic shoe out of my way. I mumbled my apology to her as I tried not to peer at her from my spot on the floor. I stood up quickly, pocketed my phone, and exited the stall. I washed my hands repeatedly while wondering if it would have been better to have flushed the phone.

I have debated getting a personalized phone case to warn potential thieves that my phone spent some time hanging out on a public restroom floor, not unlike the pizza delivery guy’s caveat, “driver has less than $20 in vehicle.” It could say something like, “This phone wallowed in movie theater bathroom filth. Who knows what contaminants are still detectable on this device. If you choose to pinch it and put it near your mouth and ear, have at it, fool. I know where it has been. Oh, the horror,” only I don’t think all that would fit.

Too bad I don’t have an iPhone Plus. That bad boy couldn’t fit through that hole in the toilet, which isn’t a hole exactly. It’s called a trap, and I know this because I researched toilet parts for accuracy. You’re welcome.

I did learn something from this experience. From now on, I’ll put my phone in my bra before I stand and flush.