Poop Memos

“Why don’t you quit?” Kozi, the girl from the office next door asked me. The two of us have only really spoken a handful of times—running into each other in the lobby or elevator, and once, of all places, while I was champagne-drunk at Café Gypsy—but she already knows enough about my plight here at Badvertiser to make such a brazen suggestion as quitting my new job.

And it’s no wonder. I was in our shared lobby, per our super’s request, picking through a mass grave of severed desk limbs, gaping cardboard boxes with Styrofoam teeth jutting out all over the place, and the guts of defective computers. The super, when I ran into him on the way to work, said that it’s not his job to break down the boxes, though he offered to do it for $100. If only I could charge a fee per poop-sign they make me post.

In any case, the super was right. It’s not his job. It’s not really my job either, especially because I don’t even know where all of this junk came from. But I knew that I was the only one at Badvertiser who would deal with it. I gave Kozi an unsatisfactory answer to her question; she left, baffled as to why I am torturing myself. Why am I doing this?

I started breaking the boxes down, stacking like-sized objects with each other. The task was a no-brainer, as are most of my tasks here.

Moments later, the super came up to our lobby. I explained that I was taking care of the garbage, and that he needn’t worry; it’s not his job, he was right. But the super, being the nice guy that he is, grumbled that it isn’t my job either, and started helping me—free of charge. Even he, in his position as building bitch, sympathized with my getting dicked around at work.

Before you know it, we’re done. Everything’s cleared. I can move on with my day, and hopefully do something productive.

So, here I am, productively eating my breakfast and shopping online for boots, when I get an email from Kozi. She’s apologetic, but reports that her office is frustrated with the fact that we’re always messing up the shared bathroom, keeping it occupied and what-not. She doesn’t go into detail, but I presume someone has pulled a clog-and-run again, because the super is ringing the doorbell and telling me to tell everybody how to flush properly.

The only thing I can really do short of acting as the keymaster for the bathroom is to send out a mass email to the staff here. A memo. About poop.

I craft it with tact, disguising my ridicule as professionalism. I can only hope that this won’t spark a series of spite-poop-clogs in the shared bathroom. I send out the memo, my words irrevocable, putting the matter out of my hands. Now, it is up to the humanity of the people in the Badvertiser office to keep our toilets clog-free.