FDNY

I called S. when I was liberated I said I was not going to make the 2.14 train, and would catch the 3.14 instead.

"You were where?!"
"I'm not kidding. It's the honest truth."

Even to me, my excuse for missing the earlier train sounded preposterous, like an artfully contrived excuse I might hear from one of my students.

Well, I do not lie well, and S. had no reason to doubt my explanation.

On Saturday I ventured in to the city to see my friend D. for brunch and whatever meanderings we chose. A return to the Hollywood diner on 6th Ave where we could sit out on the still-shady sidewalk without grilling ourselves. Somewhere between the steady flow of java-juice and our omelettes, a furious parade of fire trucks--say 4 or 5 of them--made their way to our block. Curiously we didn't smell smoke and joked about a cat situation (no trees in sight though). Or maybe a filming of Dennis Leary's "Rescue Me." Or I thought, maybe someone got locked in a room?

Wandering, we end up in the thick of shoe heaven--more like hell, we thought, with the too-loud-music and too-wacked-out salesmen, yelling bar codes into their garthbrookheadsets and cajoling 'you wanna try this one?' Maybe it was aptly called shoe mania? Pandemonium in the Milton sense... At one point, the converse-shod D. was donning the Chiquita-espadrille-heel-summer-trend. And I was with a pal who knew how to navigate the retail restrooms of Union Square...

Time was a-flyin. Time to head back up toward Penn, but we ducked into an Old Navy on 6th Avenue. For a pit stop of course.

The two women's rooms were at the end of the hall, both bearing 'vacant' signs and like a homing pigeon we veer off to our respective destination. Turning right, D. is successful, but I turning to the left, jiggle the handle and realize that 'vacant' is misleading--'Use the men's room!' D says. So I do. I choose the one on the same wall.

Here's the thing, if that first misleading vacancy was an omen for what was to follow, I missed it. With bladder-emptying on the brain, it would have taken a dozen circling hawks to get me thinking twice... to see the tell-tale sign.

Mission accomplished. Hands washed, yes, I grabbed the door handle in one hand and the upper dead bolt in the other, expecting a swift exit. I turned over the dead bold a few times before I heard myself saying, oh no, and uh-oh. Hearing D. exit, I yelled that I could not unlock my door. She helped, I played with the dead bolt some more. I tried the old plastic card trick with an old library card. To no avail.

I don't know when it hit her, but it was clear to me that I was locked in a pipi men's room --indefinitely.

Savvy and certainly swifter than I could be, D. calls the sales people over for help...She's got 4 or 5 of them working on the door, jiggling, they're even kicking,... From the echoey-tiled cubicle that could be my unheimlich home the din of chattering seemed like a cacophony of imperatives and question marks. So I called D. on her cell phone to get the scoop from her side of the door. And I asked her if she would kindly hang about to ensure my release. So no one would forget about me. Knowing she had other possible outings I was uncertain of her afternoon plans. And as good-humored as ever she said, "Oh, yeah, I'm just going to shop around. See you in a bit." Somewhere between that line, another, and the fit of nervous giggles that ensued, her battery died.

And so, there I was. Nothing to do but stare at the door, watch the lock move, and stare fiercely at the immobile deadbolt, telepathically willing it to click. Now, I am usually with a book, but I confess, I didn't feel much like reading. I usually have a pad and a pen. Guess I emptied out my bag for this urban foray--not a writing implement to me name. So I cannot document this crisis. And of late, I usually have a Phillips screw driver handy. And I cannot unscrew my way out of this microbe crawling farm. The room is hermetically sealed--no one could pass me a note or a screwdriver under the door. Not a hairbreadth of space. And I am sans tools.

Well, I'm in there for a good 15 minutes when I catch wind of who has been called in to assist. No, not the locksmith. That'd be too obvious, right. But the FDNY. (For you out of town and out of continent readers, that's the Fire Department of New York.) They called the freakin' fire department to my rescue. Can you imagine my surprise at being the cause for a FDNY call? The fire department.

For a few seconds I feel a panic. Yes, all of a sudden, adrenaline inspired fear kicked right in. Only then did it occur to me, that should this building catch fire, I could be in true peril. Sure, the door was tighter than airport security.... but the fear of asphyxiating in a germy men's room sent a knee shaking panic down to my entrails.

Well, in a matter of minutes they have me standing back, so they can try and bust the door down. I'm still in the pipi bathroom, remember? Porcelain and tile could shatter and shards could fly. And there does happen to be a sort of titled-buttress I can stand behind, been standing there since the sales people were kicking the door.

And soon, an eye framed in dewy sweat appears in the hole where the deadbolt lock used to be. Stepping forward, I spoke to confirm that there was no other lock on the door handle. The guy fiddled some more, using a thin metal tool he slowly rotated the mechanism.

I was freed.

And the door has opened on 5 fully uniformed, sweating firemen. All of them seemed rather cute, but again this is coming from me--the me who was locked in an airtight pipi bathroom. I may not be the most objective narrator. Nonetheless, in that moment, they could be cute because they were my liberators.

A chorus of are-you-all-right? from them. Nodding, I exited with,"So much for discreetly using the men's room." A chorus of laughter. After all that was the one thing I had time to think about---riding on optimism--what would my witty exit remark be?

I had to provide the store with my particulars--maybe they were going to call me as a follow-up to make sure that (a) I would not sue them or (b) have their corporate shrink call me. Who knows. The store made out pretty well with me--I was not a claustrophobic, high maintenance shrieker type of captive and they got the opportunity to gawk at the firemen on the clock. The store manager on duty gave me a meager $25 in gift cards, and encouraged me to shop awhile. D. and I looked at each other and made for the escalator that would get us to the door and to the open sidewalks of Gotham.

"Honey, I'm not gonna make the 2.14 train. I was trapped in a men's room at Old Navy and FDNY had to get me out."

Who wouldn't believe me now?