I’d never needed a piss so bad. It was only about half an hour into the day but it felt like I hadn’t had a slash in decades. Like I’d broken the leash.
I jogged down the two floors into the basement area to a toilet that wasn’t frequented by people in the office. We weren’t exactly allowed to be there yet my colleague Nick was holding court by one of the three urinals.
I chose the furthest one from him and let loose, pissing a proper dangerous amount. For a few moments I considered holding it in for fear of becoming dehydrated but that wasn’t an option. It was firing out in all directions.
“Some piss that,” Nick said. “Don’t get owt on me.”
“Ey?” I said, stupefied. “Sorry.”
“Sorry haha,” Nick said. “Are you alright? You look a bit…”
“It just came on. I have no idea why.”
As the piss drew to a close, I could smell burning. Straight away I thought Fuck, it’s a stroke.
I’m gonna have a stroke in front of Nick from finance. Fucking hell.
I went over to the sink and splashed two palms of water onto my face. Everything was okay. I started coming down from the experience. But I could still smell burning. I asked Nick to check I wasn’t losing the plot and he giggled and pointed to the top of a cubicle in the other end of the room. There was a plume of smoke billowing up to the roof.
“What the fuck?” I said. “Is that someone smoking?”
“Aye,” Nick said. “That’s the toilet tabber.”
“The what?”
“Some guy comes down here and has a tab on the loo,” Nick said.
“Are you fucking serious? That’s illegal.”
Nick shook his knob and tucked himself in. “Ah come on mate, it’s just a laugh innit?”
“A laugh?” I said. “Fuck off. I’m struggling to breathe.”
“Oh come off it! It’s taken you about a minute to notice and now you’re having a cow. Just leave him to it.”
Full disclosure: I hate smoking. Always have. I made both my parents quit when I was nine and don’t hang out with anyone from work who has a habit. I’m not one of those sympathisers who ‘loves the smell’. The entire business of it makes me sick. I don’t suffer second-hand smoke gladly, not least in the work toilets.
Nick gave me a pat on the back and said, “Come on, there’s an email I need to show you upstairs.”
A few hours later, with the fecklessness of the toilet tabber still weighing me down, I messaged another colleague, Connor, on Slack.
“Mate, do me a favour?” I said. “Come down to the first floor toilets with me. I need you to see something.”
“At least buy me a beer first!” he said.
“I’m serious. I went down there earlier and someone was smoking. Apparently people are aware of this.”
“Oh, the Toilet Tabber? Yeah lmao. So jokes.”
“It’s not jokes, it’s illegal. It has to stop.”
“Why? Don’t be daft.”
“How is everyone okay about this?” I said. “You don’t smoke?”
“It is what it is mate,” he said. “That all you needed? Swamped here.”
“What’s the point of going to the first floor toilets to smoke when you can go outside within a few steps?”
“I don’t know. I find it quite amusing. Chat to ya later mate.”
The whole thing was really getting on my tits.
I went to the normal toilets at one point and opened-wide in the mirror to see if there were any white spots on my tonsils or yellow coating on my tongue. I felt ill and shattered.
Later on by the kitchen I looked out over the office and examined every person. I singled out the smokers and estimated which one was twisted and addicted enough to make a hobby out of smoking tabs on the toilet. Was it something they did everywhere? Like in clubs and at home? Or was it just the kick of doing it at work that got them going? So many questions poking through the fog of my brain. Perhaps it was someone who didn’t smoke on the regular. That counts everyone, more or less. This office was like a Comic-Con of social smokers.
The downstairs toilet is usually quiet. A girl taking advantage and throwing dissenters off the scent? I know Kiera smokes indoors. She did it once at her flat when everyone was over for her birthday and I never returned.
Then it hit me.
Rat everyone out. Blanket ban the thing. Approach the Big Cheese and ask him to lock down any further weekly socials until the toilet tabber reveals themselves. Surefire stuff.
“Patrick, a word when you can?” I asked our CEO. “It’s something that’s really bothering me.”
He titled his head and narrowed his eyes. “…God. Are you okay? Let’s talk now.”
Walking into his office, I could feel the disparaging eyes of Nick and Connor. But I didn’t care. Enough was enough.
I shut the door and said, “So it’s become clear to me today that…”
Patrick interrupted. “Look, I uh… I actually think I know what you’re talking about.”
“You do?”
“The smoke,” he said. “Downstairs.”
“You’ve seen it too?! It’s outrageous isn’t it?”
“It’s not anything to be proud of.”
“We’ve got to out the fucker. I already know how, if you’ll let me.”
“No need. No need.”
“What?” I said.
“God, how do I say this?” Patrick said. “I know what you were going to say because, well, I’m responsible for the smoke.”
What the fuck?
“…you’re the toilet tabber?” I said.
“The toilet tabber? Haha. Is that what they’re calling it? I suppose so, in a way.”
I was shocked. I didn’t quite know how to continue the conversation, having come into it dead aggressive.
“Patrick, you can’t smoke in the work toilets,” I said. “I mean, you just can’t.”
“I know, I know. I respect you coming to me about this. Clearly I’ve been abusing my position and things have to change around here. Starting from the top. You’ll never have to worry about it again. I promise.”
And I didn’t. The smoking came to an end. I checked every day, even looking inside the cubicle for cigarette butts or ash. There was nothing to see.
Patrick, who I already respected, really did keep his word. One afternoon I messaged him: “Mate — you’re doing great. If you ever need a word or a clinic contact et cetera, let me know. Best.”
About a week later, I rushed into work once again needing to piss (train loos were disabled), choosing the downstairs toilet I’d been monitoring so passionately and gave my usual urinal hell for leather, when I noticed the same smell of burning that had led to this whole nightmare. “No, no, NO!” I shouted, zipping my trousers. “Patrick? No fucking way. What did you fucking say? Ey! What did you fucking say!”
Not wasting my time indulging any sentimental apology, I booted the door open in four kicks. As expected, there was Patrick, cloaked in a smog of smoke.
When it cleared, it wasn’t a Marlboro or Mayfair that Patrick had in his hand, but a glass tube erected on a makeshift tray of tin foil.
“Ah fuck,” he said, his eyes dark and sunken like a Greek pensioner. “Well, cat’s out of the bag. It’s crack. Alright? I’m not smoking cigarettes. I’m smoking crack.”
I assessed the entire cubicle, taking the whole sorry scene in, before saying: “Why didn’t you tell me? Pass it over.”
You see, I love crack. It’s just cigarettes I hate.
