Tom ziemer
DENNIS HAS A secret bathroom, he tells us at our team meeting. We wait for him to reveal its location, but he doesn’t, and once my initial disappointment fades, I find I can’t blame him. Bathrooms have become sought-after in our ancient, retrofitted building that’s not really even an office. It used to be a student dorm, named for a war hero, connected to a second small tower that pays tribute to some poor guy who died in a rail accident. But space is at a premium on campus, so we’ve been shunted here, where the only bathroom in our hallway is a ladies’ room.
It’s payback for our gender’s indiscretions, I imagine. There’s a unisex bathroom on the basement level, which should do the trick. It’s huge, considering it contains just one solitary toilet. Farts on that throne echo around the walls, while the radiator ticks like a bomb waiting to explode.
But that expansive performance space is of little use, because someone keeps plugging the toilet. These don’t look like innocent accidents, either; we’re talking bowl-stuffed-with-half-a-roll-of-toilet-paper kind of clogs. One time last week, the water had overflowed, forming a little pond in the center of the uneven tile floor. Then there’s the sprayed urine that randomly appears on the toilet seat, as if someone is pissing through a strainer. It’s clear one among us does not know how to use the bathroom—1s or 2s.
We all suspect it’s this new IT guy who’s taken over an office near the end of the hall. He’s hung his name plate upside down outside his door, clearly intentionally, like he’s establishing his alternative, wacky vibe. He’s got a ponytail, wears Hawaiian shirts every day, and plays calypso music with his door wide open. The guy seems desperate to send a message, though none of us are sure what exactly it is. But fucking up a bathroom could very well be part of his game.
The only out-and-out men’s room is on the second floor, the domain of the rest of the IT army. Steve saw one of them carry a salad into a stall one day. It’s only borderline safe up there as it is with that kind of behavior; now a maintenance crew has cordoned off much of the hallway with plastic wrap that seems unlikely to contain the spread of any asbestos while the workers rip up the flooring and install carpeting.
A couple of us have discovered another unisex bathroom in the basement, underneath the side paying homage to the train-death ghost. While our preferred restroom is gapingly large, this one is impossibly small, like a utility closet that would struggle to hold much more than a wheeled mop bucket. The toilet seat is deep black, which makes it feel as if you’re pooping into Darth Vader’s helmet. Beyond the question of whether this one, tiny lavatory can service five able-bodied men, it’s also located directly across the hall from a conference room that’s been converted into an office for a middle manager who rules over the IT army. For all we know, he’s charting our shits. It’s unsettling.
But Dennis, it seems, has cracked the code with his mystery facility. And if he won’t tell me where it is, then I’ll have to find out on my own.
MY GIRLFRIEND DRAGGED me to Madison six years ago, after we’d both finished our degrees in Brookings. She said there were lakes and restaurants and concerts and festivals, all sorts of things that would make us feel like hip young professionals. I didn’t really care about feeling like a hip young professional; I’m a pretty simple guy, happy playing video games and watching South Dakota State hoops and eating chicken tenders. But if she wanted to feel cooler, then I wanted her to. And Madison sounded fun enough. I figured maybe I could bike around the city, learn to paddleboard, try a bratwurst, expand my horizons a little. Then Cheyenne dumped me six months after we’d moved here, said that being in a new place had helped her see that I wasn’t ready to evolve as fast as her. It seemed harsh to me, considering she hadn’t even seen me paddleboard yet.
She took over our lease, and I moved out to an extended stay hotel on the northeast side of town to recalibrate. I missed her, or at least missed being the sort of person that someone occasionally had sex with, missed having standing dates and cooking dinner for another human. Within a month, she’d posted a photo of her with another guy on Facebook. I couldn’t tell from looking at him whether he was truly primed for evolution, but I would imagine she’d verified his readiness for change.
Happily, I found the listing for this job that same night, which pulled me out of my doldrums. I’d taken a position with a biotech company before we’d moved here, one with an office in the university’s sprawling but bland research park on the west side of town. But I only interacted with one other person there, a perpetually tired researcher with a ponytail named Raj who kept saying we were close, very close, just a few more months and I’d be pulling together his research reports and preparing grant applications to the NIH. And he’d been saying this for the past six months without much changing. I was pleasantly surprised the company continued to have enough funding to pay my salary, but it didn’t feel like the best use of my biochemistry degree.
Then I came across this job in research administration at the university, helping prepare grant proposals and interfacing with funding agencies. The position description didn’t mention anything about the bathroom situation.
DENNIS DRIVES A lime-green hatchback, which is helpful for my purposes. I’m hoping he won’t remember any discussion about my blue sedan, but it’s nondescript enough that I doubt he’d pick me out, anyway. I’m not a flashy guy, much to Cheyenne’s chagrin.
I park in the first open spot I find in the ramp, hoping no overnight workers will leave before Dennis arrives and present him with a chance to evade my surveillance. Then I sit and wait, unbuckling my seatbelt and repositioning my body so I don’t have to spend the next 20 minutes craning my neck to look over my left shoulder. It’s 7:45, which is at least a half hour before Dennis usually arrives in the office. I figure it takes him five minutes to walk over from this parking ramp, maybe 10 more to stop and poop—he seems like he’d be a fairly efficient pooper—so I should be comfortably early. A faculty member, an early 30-something woman who studies cellular mechanics and needed help with a grant application last fall, walks past, and I shrink sideways in my seat, hoping she won’t see me and think I’m one of those guys who waits for people in parking garages. Which, I realize, is precisely what I am this morning. This is different, though.
I’m about to call this morning a bust when Dennis’ hatchback drives past. I turn to the right and watch him hang a right to head to the second level. This is where it gets tricky. I count to 90, stopping slightly at 45 because it’s always been my favorite number. Probably not many people like a number that high, I figure. Then I open my door, grab my backpack, and head for the exit. Sure enough, Dennis is maybe 50 yards ahead of me on the sidewalk when I emerge from the parking ramp. I’m naturally a fast walker, so I pace myself, because Dennis is a pretty observant guy, the type who might sense someone encroaching on him. We walk past the only significant stretch of green space on this side of campus, then under a pedestrian bridge that connects a library to a research tower that seems to house a hodge podge of faculty from various departments, based on the meetings I’ve had in there. The football stadium, currently named for the nation’s leading brand of frozen meatballs, is off to the left, and I briefly wonder if this is it, if Dennis has located a bathroom tucked away in the gridiron catacombs. But he continues on, in the direction of our building, before taking an unexpected left turn down a narrow street that doesn’t even allow parking on both sides, for obvious reasons.
It’s lined with shitty old houses that pass for acceptable student apartments, the property companies putting in the absolute bare minimum of repairs to keep them rentable. I slow as I approach the corner, then take a tentative peek around the first house. Dennis is nowhere to be seen.
I CALLED HOME the night after Cheyenne broke up with me, one of those calls you make when you feel like you need support that you’re not going to get. My parents have a bizarre cell phone setup where calls and texts go to both of their phones. I’m never quite sure who I’m going to get. Or who I’m hoping to get.
My dad answered, and I told him the news right out of the gate. He silently listened, told me it was a damn shame, that we’d been a good pair but you just never know how these things are going to go. Then he passed the phone to my mom, who tried to console me for an appropriate amount of time before popping the question I’d known was coming.
“So, are you coming back home then?”
I told her about the job, about how I didn’t love Madison but wanted to give it another six months just to prove to myself that I could exist outside of my comfort zone. I knew this wouldn’t please my mother, but thankfully she didn’t protest.
“Just promise me that if she tries to get back together, you’ll tell her to go jump in a lake,” she said.
I told her I would, then joked about there being five lakes right around the city, even though I’d spent part of the afternoon fantasizing about Cheyenne calling me in tears, telling me she’d made a huge mistake, that she hoped I could forgive her because she needed to be with me.
I hung up and went back to browsing apartment listings online. One touted the flush capacity of its toilet, which struck me as a strange tidbit to include. But maybe this was part of the culture in Wisconsin? The last sentence of the listing claimed the building was a short walk away from the best barbeque joint in town. I jotted down the number on a Post-it note.
I WAKE UP late the morning after tailing Dennis, which means I won’t find his exclusive lavatory today. It’s 9:07 by the time I scan my keycard at the front door of our building, and I head directly downstairs to release the urine that’s accumulated during my bus ride. I’ve taken to commuting on the B route at least a few times a week these past couples years, turning over another new leaf in defiance of Cheyenne’s proclamation. I bet she’s never even tried the bus, though I can’t confirm that because I’ve set a strict rule for myself to never check her Instagram or Facebook pages. And the last time I broke that rule was three years ago.
The door to the unisex bathroom is open, but the lights are off when I step inside. In the second before the motion sensor triggers, I imagine what I’ll find: a stew of streaked toilet paper in the bowl? A urine-splashed seat? A miniature brown Washington monument in the middle of the floor?
But when the fluorescent lights kick on, I see nothing out of the ordinary, just a clean bathroom apart from the cockroach trap under the sink. There aren’t even any paper towels in the wastebasket, and the toilet bowl is still full of cleaner from the overnight crew’s visit. Forget Bezos, this is the real Blue Origin, I think to myself. I crack a smile at my own witticism, hang my backpack on the door’s hook, then unzip and relieve myself, my nose reminding me mid-pee that I had asparagus at dinner last night.
When I get back upstairs, Steve and Dennis are both already in their offices, typing away at reports for their assigned departments. Dennis looks up as I linger outside his door.
“Chief,” he says.
“Downstairs bathroom was clean enough to eat off the floor,” I report with a grin.
“I don’t even look down there anymore,” he says, in a joking tone that I suspect masks smugness. Because he doesn’t need to bother with the downstairs bathroom for his morning eruption. And now that the carpeting project is complete upstairs, he can just piddle up there or into Vader’s helmet a few times and call it a day, hit up his mystery toilet on the way to his car if need be.
I unlock my office door, slide my laptop out of my Under Armour backpack, and settle into my chair. Upside-down nameplate guy is playing his dumb music again, so I plug in my earbuds and open Spotify, click on a Jason Isbell mix because the Madison liberals have nudged me to the left, to the point that I avoid any talk about politics with my parents when I call home. I don’t need a lecture about how colleges are brainwashing us country kids.
My inbox is full of requests for help from faculty members and depressing non-updates from our associate dean, who has been sending out daily dispatches about the fight over reimbursement rates for indirect research costs. And my parents wonder why I vote the way I do.
A newish professor in the materials science department needs assistance figuring out proposal requirements for an early career award to support his research on Heusler compounds. I don’t know what the fuck Heusler compounds are, so I start there, scrolling through explainer pages with three-dimensional structures showing how the different components of the alloys fit together. I don’t need to know much in the way of details—I’m preparing a grant proposal, not getting a PhD—but it’s helpful to both have some context and to show the professor that I care enough about his work to understand 1% of it.
I’m midway through reading a paragraph about how Heuslers could be useful in spintronics when a new email pops into my Outlook inbox with a subject line that seizes full control of my brain.
“Secret Bathroom,” it says.
I TRIED TINDER for a little while, starting about a year after Cheyenne, back when it seemed like the in-vogue way to meet people. I swiped right on maybe two dozen women, went on dates with three of them, messaged with two more who ghosted me when it came time to firm up plans. Of the three I met in person, one nervously bounced her leg so continuously that I found myself shoveling in my burger like I needed to beat a timer. Another seemed sweet but texted two days later to tell me she felt more of a friend connection with me. I started to type back, “Friends with benefits?” but then thought better of it and just sent back a thumbs up emoji.
The last one wanted to kiss before the start of our date, to see if she felt a spark before investing any more time. I wasn’t sure if that meant I should go for the tongue right out of the gate, decided against it, and watched her stare off toward the sunset as she mulled the vibrancy of our liplock.
“I’m sorry, but I just think I can do better,” she said, before waving goodbye. I did not wave back.
Since then, I’ve gone on exactly one date.
THE EMAIL IS from what I assume is a fake name. Bert Bielema has to be an intentional misspelling of Bret, the former Badgers football coach with that last name. It’s gotta be someone who’s been around Madison for a while.
I can feel my pulse gather pace as I open it, my brain suddenly stimulated after the numb of reading about fundamental scientific research. Sure, I have some genuine interest in my work, but c’mon. You try reading terms like “ferromagnetism” and see what happens to your mind.
The message is short and cryptic, which I guess is what you’d expect from an email written under an alias.
“I know what you’re after. Perhaps together we can find it?”
I ‘x’ out of the message, as if someone might burst into my office and see it. Then I try to avoid thinking about it for the rest of the day, returning to my review of Heuslers and reading a couple think pieces in scientific journals on the threats posed by potential federal funding restrictions. I eat lunch at the wings joint down the street, poop in Vader’s helmet because the larger downstairs bathroom is occupied—possibly by the culprit of these unprovoked attacks—and finish up my review of a grant proposal on the biomechanics of knee cartilage.
Before I leave for the day, I type out a short reply.
“OK. How?”
MY LAST DATE was two years ago. Her name was Katie, which I figured suited me better than Cheyenne. My ex’s name had always sounded both a bit too country and exotic for me; like I said, I’m a pretty simple guy. Plain, you might even say. The most expensive clothing item I’ve bought in the past five years was a $130 Tucker Kraft Packers jersey, since he played college ball at South Dakota State.
Anyway, Katie met me at a little neighborhood tavern, right between the east side where she lived and my north side territory. She had moved here from Iowa for college at age 18 and then never left. She had strawberry blond hair and freckles, and she closed her eyes when she laughed. We talked about the university, the constant delays with building the city’s public market, our plans for the summer (I was finally, finally going to buy my very own paddleboard and brave Lake Mendota, rather than just renting at Lake Wingra during my post-work outings). I ordered a burger, she got chicken strips, we shared a basket of fries. When the check came, I insisted on paying, and when we lingered outside on the sidewalk, I pecked her on the cheek. She giggled, eyes closed, I told her I’d text her and she waved, wiggling her fingers more than moving her hand.
We traded messages the next day, but then she called me in tears and told me her dad was sick. Cancer. She was moving back to Iowa. I asked if she needed help loading up, but she told me that was too much to expect of me. We still texted, until we mutually decided it was probably best to permanently pause things.
In the last text I sent her, I told her to please, please get in touch if she ever moved back to Madison. And that I would do the same if life brought me to Iowa. (I seriously considered it, but how could I walk away from this kind of lake access after investing in that paddleboard?)
She hearted my message. We haven’t talked since.
MY CURIOSITY HAS gotten the best of me.
Rather than stalking Dennis, I’ve decided I’ll see how this situation with the anonymous tipster plays out. When I log in to my computer this morning, another email is waiting for me.
“Keep an eye on him. Email me whenever he leaves the office—for lunch, at the end of the day, etc.”
This idea of spying on my coworker like this gives me pause. OK, so I’ve already tailed him one morning. But this feels like another level of surveillance, actively monitoring his every going like some criminal. I can feel my bowels stir, my morning coffee inciting them to action, and so I stand and lock my screen, head down to the large unisex bathroom to make my a.m. deposit.
What I find there is revolting.
There’s no smell when I walk in, which lulls me into a false sense of security. It’s only when I reach the toilet that I see the disaster: brown splatters all over the bowl, little flakes of what I assume are undigested tomato skins, a shit stew where there should be clean water.
By the time I’ve walked over to Vader’s helmet, taken care of my business, and returned to my office, I’ve made up my mind: If I have to report on Dennis like a secret agent, then so be it.
“I can do that,” I type in reply. “But sometimes he arrives before me in the morning.”
Another email arrives in mere seconds.
“That’s fine. Just do this for a week and we’ll have what we need.”
Excitement swells in my stomach, even though I realize the absurdity and borderline inappropriateness of this whole scheme. But God do I need to find another bathroom.
Five minutes later, Dennis walks by with a slight smile on his face, the look of a man who’s had his needs met. I listen as he unlocks his door and plops his backpack onto his desk. Then I go back to reading through the Heusler researcher’s grant application.
THE FIRST TIME I tried paddleboarding, I fell off at least four times. I didn’t figure it’d be that hard to simply stand up on the damn thing, but it turns out you have to consciously anchor your feet, squeeze the insides of your thighs, and concentrate not too hard but just hard enough.
I stuck with it, though, and grew to enjoy the calm focus that coursed through my body as I glided around Lake Wingra, surrounded by the university arboretum, the campus of a small Catholic college, and the park that housed the city’s free zoo.
Lake Mendota wasn’t quite as peaceful to me, but it was an easy walk from my apartment, even with my new inflatable paddleboard and its components strapped on my back. One summer evening, as I sat down on my board and dangled my legs in the water, my oar resting across my lap, it hit me: I’d done it, carved out a life here, survived two states away from home. I’d evolved.
MY FINGERS DRUM against my thigh, just below the bottoms of my shorts since it’s summer and our office’s window unit air conditioners struggle to beat back the humidity. It’s not a frozen tundra here year-round.
This morning’s meeting is the culmination of my weeklong tracking assignment, though I can’t understand how the data I sent could possibly reveal the location of Dennis’ secret potty. But I told myself I’d see it through, so here I am, standing outside the back entrance to the student union, a couple blocks north of our building.
On my bus ride in, I briefly wondered how my mysterious confidante would identify me, if I needed to come up with some sort of signal, then remembered that it was this individual who first contacted me. Surely, this “Bert” will be able to pick me out.
Graduate students, staff members, and professors stroll down the street and through the union. Summers in Madison are a treat, the city breathing a sigh of relief as the undergraduate students clear out, taking their house parties and mopeds and leggings with them.
I look down the street and see ponytailed Mr. Calypso Music strolling in my direction. Of course it was him all along. All this bathroom chaos started after his arrival, and now he’s holding the key to the solution. He’s wearing another one of his dumb Hawaiian shirts, cargo shorts, and neon green Teva sandals. I close my eyes and try to reassure myself that I’m merely doing what I must do, as much as it disgusts me to team up with this wacko.
He’s a block away when he turns and heads down the street to our building. Just then, my phone dings in my pocket, and I pull it out to see I have a new email from my digital pen pal.
“Come inside the union, take the first stairwell down to the basement, hang a right, then walk all the way down the hall. Last door on the right.”
I could bail, just run off to my office, forget about the whole thing. Email back and tell “Bert” to go jump in a lake. But I’ve come this far. I need to see what—or who—is waiting for me down in the basement.
I slip my phone back in my pocket, turn and pull open the door, step into the cool air, conditioned by a proper HVAC system, one that’s fit to support human life. My eyes find the stairwell, and I pad down the concrete steps till they reach their terminus. A quick right, then I can feel my hands growing clammy as I will my feet forward. This would be the perfect spot to kill someone, my brain suddenly realizes. Still, I walk on.
At the end of the hallway, I see two doors, the one on the left marked “Custodial services,” the other on the right lacking any sort of sign or label.
This is it. The moment of truth. I try the handle, but it’s locked. It dawns on me that this could all just be an elaborate prank, someone leading me down to a locked utility room to spoil my morning. Maybe it was Upside-down Nameplate Guy, and he just needed to confirm that I was in position.
Before I turn and leave and pretend none of this happened, I knock just in case. After a couple seconds, I walk back down the hallway, before I hear the sound of a door unlocking and a voice calls my name.
When I wheel back around, I see him standing there, holding the door open.
“Dennis?” I stammer out.
“I needed to see how bad you wanted it,” he says.
Then he motions me forward with his free hand.
“C’mon. Let me show you around.”
Tom Ziemer is a writer who lives in Mount Horeb, Wisconsin (the self-proclaimed Troll Capital of the World) with his wife, Hannah, two sons, and two dogs. His work has appeared in BULL, Good River Review, Johnny America, The Good Life Review, and more.
Find him on Bluesky @thommyziemer.bsky.social.
