My sister Heather has one of those lights with a built-in fan in her bathroom, the kind that office buildings have—the kind that doesn’t let you “opt out” of the fan. This is a problem for me whenever we go to Redding and stay at Heather’s house. I have poor vision and rely on my ability to hear what’s going on around me, so I’ve always had trouble with these built-in fan-lights because I can’t hear what’s going on outside the bathroom while I use it. In office buildings this wasn’t so bad, as I would never use a public bathroom for anything other than a quick mirror check, hand washing or urination (hovering, of course). But at Heather’s when we stay overnight, I often need to make use of the facilities for more serious matters.

Lately, to help assuage my fear that people are timing me when I go to the bathroom, I’ll make a big show of the fact that I’m going. That way everyone understands that I know they know I’m going to the bathroom, and I might come across as nonchalant. But my cool, casual attitude disappears the minute I close the bathroom door.

The fan in Heather’s bathroom is so loud that I can’t hear what people are saying about the fact that I’m using the toilet. So I tried leaving the light off and pooping in the dark, but because there’s no window, it’s really obvious to those on the outside that I’m sitting in total darkness. I don’t need to draw that kind of attention to myself at such a delicate time. They’re already timing me; I don’t need them asking why I’m shitting in the dark, too.

All of this worry usually keeps me in the bathroom for a long time, during which, if I’ve left the fan-light on, I imagine all kinds of things that could be going on outside the bathroom. They could be making jokes about my bathroom habits, they could be wondering why the light keeps going on and off, or Nazis could have just kicked in the door and relocated them all to death camps. I imagine stepping out of the bathroom into a completely different world. Entire empires are built and collapsed in the span of a single defecation.  I emerge to find ground zero, a barren wasteland, tumbleweeds blowing by. In all my fantasies, there is one constant: Somehow, the bathroom is always unaffected by the blasts from the various nuclear weapons that go off while I’m engulfed in the cacophony of the fan-light.

Sometimes I find that everyone has aged fifty years and no one remembers who I am. Once I had to pick my way through the wreckage of a plane that had crashed through the ceiling. Other times I exit to find myself in a building that looks like what we thought the future would be in 1980. Secretaries wearing funny hats are running around in starched skirts that come to sharp points. Little robots pass out the mail. People notice me right away because of my strange clothing, and I’m taken into custody for questioning. I’ll curse myself for not bringing a flashlight into the bathroom and try to figure out a way to get back to my own time.

Heather has suggested using candles, but I don’t think that’s a good idea. I could sift through the wreckage of crashed airplanes and demolished cities, or placate a race of futuristic super-humans, easier than I could explain to my friends and family a candlelight crap or an attack on a light fixture with a plunger.

Dear Ethan,

I’ve got news for you, buddy. You and I did not grow up during the Depression. Here is a list of some of the things I am sick of saving for future use:

Dead batteries.

Pants without a crotch.

Single shoes.

Old phone books.

Beer bottles. There’s a homeless man who rides up and down our street on trash day, for fuck’s sake—let’s give him our bottles.

The water left over from steamed vegetables. It’s not soup, Ethan, and it never will be.

Love,

Ami

P.S. Please stop putting wine in the stew. It makes it taste like my grandpa’s kisses.

Dear Arnica,

Well, here it is Wednesday and again I haven’t heard from you. You know what this is like? That episode of Full House, the one where DJ starts dating Steve and forgets all about her best friend, Kimmy Gibbler. DJ is so busy with her boyfriend she doesn’t remember poor Kimmy’s birthday party and improvises by giving her a Tater Tot cake. Kimmy realizes what’s going on and is crushed. Well, guess what, Arnica? Calling two days late is like giving me a Tater Tot cake.

I don’t want your fucking Tater Tot cake. You are DJ, Chuck is Steve, but I am nobody’s Kimmy. 

Love,

Ami