Callback

Toilet

In my opinion, it's Chris's fault. 

I told him--I told him--three times, at least.

"Get toilet paper," I said. "We're almost out."

"Sure, Frank."

He did not get toilet paper. But he did use the rest of it before going to work this morning. He left me--unaware and helpless--in an apartment hopelessly devoid of toilet paper. 

I didn't realize this. I got up at nine-thirty, like I usually do, and stumbled into the bathroom and onto the toilet without turning the lights on or even opening my eyes all the way. 

You know how it is when you wake up and you've been sleeping in a dark apartment all night--immediate bright light hurts your eyes. So you leave the lights off when you go to bathroom. And you don't notice that you're out of toilet paper. 

So I didn't notice. 

I got done with my business and automatically reached over. What you want to feel, when you reach over to the miniature rack on the wall, is a thick, full, cushiony roll of toilet paper. What you don't want to feel is a hard cardboard tube spinning empty on the rack with one half-torn square fluttering behind it like a white flag of surrender. 

When I felt that, I didn't panic too much. I twisted my way to the cabinet beside me, opened it, and reached for an extra roll. 

I did not find an extra roll. 

And now, here I am. The last forlorn little square has been used to its fullest potential, and it wasn't enough. 

As far as I can tell, I've been here at least thirty minutes, spinning my wheels and trying to figure out what to do. It'll be at least two hours before Chris gets back. 

I'm stuck on the toilet with no toilet paper. 

"Why didn't you use tissues or something?" I've never bought a box of tissues in my life. When I need to blow my nose, I use toilet paper.

If this bathroom had a shower in it, that would be one thing. Problem solved, in fact. You cut your losses, waddle your way to the shower, and just hose yourself clean. But this bathroom does not have a shower in it, and I'm in a mess. 

But I haven't panicked yet. Chris will be home eventually, or I'll figure something out before then. 

If it comes down to it, I might have to unroll that little cardboard tube. But it probably won't come to that.

So I tell myself, and I believe it, until--

I'm almost there, yeah, I'm almost there.

The music is muffled and distant. I know it's coming from my phone, which--as far as I can remember--is still sitting beside my bed in the next room. I freeze when I hear it--and then I panic. 

I don't particularly like The Princess and the Frog, but the song seemed apropos. I, like Tiana, am trying to make my way in the world. And--before this little incident--I liked to think that I, too, was almost there. So I set it as the specialized ring-tone for the people at the studio. 

The music I'm hearing is my callback. This could be the call that makes me or breaks me as an actor. 

And I'm sitting on the toilet with no toilet paper. It's already at the second ring. 

This is the critical moment--I spend a costly but intentional millisecond deliberating, weighing my options and gauging the time I have to work with. 

At the end of that millisecond, I realize that I have no options and precious little time. Whatever is about to happen has to happen fast, and it will not be pleasant.

In a frenzy, I grab the cardboard tube. 

It doesn't do a good job, and (as I would discover later) it isn't meant to be flushed. Feeling unclean but grimly determined to reach my phone, I stand up from the toilet and promptly fall over sideways. 

My legs went to sleep. 

I have heard of this happening but have always thought it was ridiculous. As a rule, I get on and off the toilet as quickly as possible. Chris claims that his legs have fallen asleep multiple times on the toilet, and I frankly didn't believe him. 

I believe him now. 

Tingling and smarting from the waist down, I lever myself to my knees. 

I'm almost there . . .

It's still going. I have time. I force myself to my feet (pins and needles) and yank the door open. The boxers come up as I'm exiting the bathroom, but the pajama pants stay down. I'm running out of time. 

I execute a strange mix of galloping and hopping to avoid being tripped by the flannel wadded around my ankles. I reach my bed--I give a flying leap.

I'm almost--

I land sprawled across my bed and snatch my phone up. In large red letters across the screen run the words, CALL ENDED. 

"Crap," I mutter. 

I lie, defeated and pantsless, across my bed for a long moment. I take a deep breath.

It isn't the end of the world. They'll call again. 

I pull my flannel pajama bottoms up and make my way back to the bathroom. After three tries, I give up trying to flush the little cardboard tube and make my way to the other bathroom to hose myself down.