One Button to Take a Number Two

I’m standing near the restrooms, mainly because I need to pee and I see a woman rush in. Our restrooms have lights which turn-on automatically when you walk in, and turn-off when there is no movement for a long time. This must be something revolutionary for some people, basically a way to save electricity and not kill the planet so quickly–every place should have some. Anyhow, the woman half-opens the door, not seeing light presses the button inside, which basically turns off the auto-switch. Now, the light will not turn on at all. So she enters and there’s darkness, but she closes the door behind her.

I’m standing there in the distance, confused as to what you can actually do in total darkness other than possibly washing your hands–I imagine a very wet toilet-seat. Soon, I see her open the door slightly, using her shopping bags to prop it open. Okay, I have no idea what she wants to do, but our restroom is small–there is only one toilet and one sink. There are no stalls, it is just a room. I’m standing there, my bladder is quite ready to burst, and I realize either she’s doing her make-up in that darkness or taking a rather long poop.

Either way, I can’t take it anymore. I ask one of my co-workers, a girl, to just go over there and you know, pretend she needs to pee, and act all surprised when she opens the door in case there’s too much to see–i.e. legs in the air or panties to the floor. So I back away a little and hide behind a fixture.

I hear knocking. “Oh, is someone in here?”
“SOMEONE IS IN HERE!” I hear a very angry voice, yelling at her.
“But the light is off…”
“YOUR LIGHT DOESN’T WORK!” She screams back. “I’M USING THE BATHROOM!”
“You just press the button,” and my co-worker blindly tries to find the button. I see her covering her face, looking away. When she does press it, the lights turn on, and my co-worker runs away. Thankfully, I can’t see anything from my angle.
A few moments later, the bags disappear and the door slams (yes, angrily), then the lock turns with equal aggression.

My co-worker comes up to me saying, “She was taking number two! It smelled so bad! It smelled so bad! I can’t believe she was on the toilet in the dark!” My co-worker starts to laugh, walking away.

I, on the other hand, still have to pee, and definitely do not enjoy peeing right after someone else drops the bomb. I’m forced to go elsewhere, mildly amused with the situation.

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Stinky Jeans

There was so much stuff in one fitting room, so I was placing some on my shoulder and my arms to put away. As I’m going back to fold them, a customer emerges from a fitting room asking me for a size. So I gladly go and get a size, and while I’m walking, I wonder why the store smells like a mix of urine, sweat, and body-odor. I wonder if it’s me, but my armpits smell fine. You always need to do the armpit check.

So I go and find the item, bending over and again, I smell the stink. I start to wonder if the store is having some ventilation problems, because there are times I smell fart when no one else is around–and it definitely isn’t me. I decide I must be smelling the vents. I return to the customer and hand them their shirt. Standing there, yet again, I smell it. Finally, I realize, I still have a pair of denim on my shoulder. A quick sniff reveals nothing. Yet, as I’m used to sniffing some clothes to check if they’re washed and worn, I know it isn’t always the ‘entire’ pant that smells. Suffice it to say, there was a certain ‘spot’ that smelled rancid compared to the rest of it. This was not a good spot to even sniff, mind you. Definitely some form of sweaty moisture from someone hard at work trying on clothes, enough to seep through their clothes onto the denim.

After washing my hands and smelling my clothes, spraying some cologne where the smell was noticeable, because it was on my clothes already, I return with a plastic trash bag–this is definitely going into the damaged product bins.

I return later, forgetting all about the denim–as would anyone else in my situation want to forget such a thing-and I find my co-worker spraying some aerosol all over the bag. She looks at me saying, “OMG, this stinks so bad! Did they pee in it? I can smell it through the bag!” At least she wasn’t carrying it on her shoulder for several minutes. My coworker properly disposed of the item, calling it, “Toxic waste.”