MINUTES OF CONTAINMENT

Vilma sits on the toilet and closes her eyes as the urine leaves her body, relieving a painful stretch in her bladder. She is going to hear about it. Employees on the fourth floor are notorious for their endurance in holding their excrements for several hours. She has failed this test several times the last two weeks. She exhales; part relieved, part filled with resentment and self-loathing. Being the secretary of the CEO of a multinational company requires special skills, albeit diminishing of human nature to absolute nihility. Her new colleagues seem to adjust without complain, leading her to question the validity of her urge to pee every now and then. If they can abstain from this trivial function, perhaps she could train herself to do it too.

She has tried several tricks. Like avoiding to drink water during working hours, wearing larger pants so that they don’t squeeze her belly; allowing more space for the bladder. She stopped eating cucumbers; her favorite vegetable. One of her colleagues informed her of the high water concentration in cucumbers. She even stopped having sex with her boyfriend. She knows from long experience that friction can cause bladder irritation. All in vain! She has only managed to reduce her visits to the toilet, yet she can’t suppress the habit entirely.

She returns to her glass desk and puts on a headset, concerned with the possibility of having missed an important call during the three-minute visit to the toilet. Her colleagues glance at her above their screens; their faces full of contempt. Just for a few seconds she envies Beatrix, her predecessor, who died from kidney failure two weeks ago. Beatrix was granted the privilege of not having to endure all these cold, unfavorable sets of eyes ever again. Vilma contemplates the moment when she will be granted that privilege.

Sometimes she nostalgically recalls the days she was working on the ground floor; at customer service. Life seemed so much simpler then. She could drink as much water as she craved, she would eat cucumber as a snack when she felt hungry and she would visit the toilet as many times as her bladder would command. Yet, she would pronounce timidly her work position every time she was asked at parties or gatherings, whereas now she can proudly say that she is the secretary of a CEO.

She takes a deep breath and composes herself. She has been lucky to be promoted so expeditiously and to such a high position. If it wasn’t for the unexpected death of her colleague, she would have never known what the fourth floor looked like. Much less to work on it.

Her boss exits his office rather agitated. His face is red and his eyeballs seem ready to pop out of his scalp.

“You went to the toilet? Again? You ‘ve missed three calls, for Christ’s sake. I’m not paying you to pee.”

Vilma slouches in her chair, utterly humiliated and yet again she wants to pee. She breathes heavily as she struggles to endure her boss’s outburst, while holding her pee.

“Yes, sir. I apologize” she says in a whisper. He seems content with her regret and returns to his office. Vilma’s urge to pee subsides as soon as her personal space is clear from this huge business figure and she strives to regain her posture and self-control, but her boss appears again. So as the urge to pee.

“Will you come in here to keep the minutes?” he says rather rudely. Yet again, Vilma strains her torso proudly for being asked to fulfill such an important duty. The Minute Keeper. She stands up quickly, with a pad and her pen held close to her belly and she follows the bold, neat man in the glass office.

Three other men, in white collars, are sat around the heavy, beech conference table, obviously bored albeit less anxious than her boss. That reduces some of the pressure in her bladder. She sits warily, her fingers wrapped around her pen like claws, her spine straight, as though she has swallowed the Excalibur.

Her boss begins to talk. Vilma slavishly records even his slightest sigh. Her agony exacerbates the pressure in her bladder. She is aghast. She has just been to the toilet. This isn’t normal. She needs to see a therapist about this self-sabotage tendency of her bladder. She discreetly moves her bottom on the chair; moving her body weight from one buttock to the other, hoping for some alleviation of the pressure. In vain! She can feel her urine dripping at the edge of her urethra . She takes a deep breath, clears her throat. The man talking stops for a second and looks at her. He is as bold as her boss. Yet, his eyes are slick and mellow. The pressure subsides slightly, just enough to keep her going. However, her boss is not ready to let go of her inappropriate intervention.

“Anything you would like to share?” he says rather sarcastically. No, no, no! The pressure becomes unbearable again.

“Forgive me, sir. I really need to go to the toilet” Vilma says utterly embarrassed.

“You are kidding, right?” says the boss, seemingly at the edge of another outburst.

Vilma shrinks into her chair, keeping her eyes on the pad. Another man intervenes; the man with the slick, mellow gaze. He defends her. He demands on her behalf to be allowed a visit to the toilet. However, the boss’s fury erupts into an offensive discourse. Vilma struggles feverishly to take the insults lightly, while maintaining the urine in her bladder. Eventually, she stands up not being able to hold her excrement, while sat. Her face parched, her hands trembling from the exertion. She lifts her skirt, pulls down her underwear. She takes an empty glass and lets her urine pour into it. Then she pulls up her underwear, pulls down her skirt and returns proudly into her chair.

“Evidently, sir, you were right. I didn’t really need to go to the toilet.”