Number Two On The Job

   Welcome to Number Two On the Job where your Number Two stories are Number One with us.
   My son-in-law, Al, an electrician, loves to regale anyone who’ll listen with stories of his prowess at clogging toilets while on the job. It’s a great source of entertainment at family gatherings, weddings, baptisms, and funerals as he talks of McGuyvering ways to clear the clog with items on hand, usually 8-gauge wire and a long screwdriver. 
   On the way home from a Bulls game last year with my sons Jim and Ed he was talking about his latest adventures when Ed, a carpenter, chimed in with some shit stories of his own. This went on all the way home and I said I oughta put these gems together in a book.
   The book idea sat like water in a toilet tank until a family Christmas vacation to Wisconsin Dells helped flush it out. While the women went shopping and the kids played in another room, the four of us sat in Al’s bedroom smoking cigars and drinking Maker’s Mark as the stories started to ooze out again. This time we said we were gonna do it, but what to call it? We pinched out several ideas but “Number Two On The Job” is what stuck to the wall.
   Now we have a title and a few stories but not enough to fill a book to the rim. Even Jim, Ed, and Al together can’t do that. This is where you come in.
   If you have a story about a time at work when nature called at a most inconvenient moment, we want to hear about it. Did you make it? Did you come up short? What obstacles did you have to overcome? How did you hide it? Don’t spare any details.
   Not a writer? Not to worry. Just send us your story in your own words and be as descriptive as possible. We’ll take care of the rest. To give you an idea of what we’re looking for, here’s my story.

 Buddy, Can You Spare A Dime?

   It was the spring of 1970. I was a senior in college looking for work in the real world. On many a morning I drove into downtown Chicago, parked, and hoofed it through the Loop to meet with some recruiter. This was such a morning.
   It was a warm for the time of year because I remember not wearing a coat. I was looking good in my gray double-breasted Edwardian suit jacket. The matching pants flared over my black wingtips secured not with laces but silver buckles. My silver shirt was outsilvered by my wide shiny silver tie with the huge knot. I was stylin’ big time.
   I was headed north on the east side of State Street to some office building when the rumbling started. It quickly turned into the gurgling and churning that makes you afraid to laugh, cough, or sneeze. The thought of farting is terrifying. It meant I had to go NOW, sooner if possible.
   Looking around, I didn’t see too many options but I knew the Palmer House was right around the corner on Monroe. I walked through the ornate lobby quickly but not so quickly as to attract attention, up the ornate stairs, step by agonizing step, and into the ornate, marble-lined men’s room. There was no one by the sinks or urinals and it appeared no one was using the stalls. This was going to be loud and messy. I sure didn’t want to share it with anyone. Being inches away from safety I started to relax, then–Oh Shit!  Pay toilets.
   It was ten cents but could have been a million dollars. I had no change. There was no attendant and no time to go back to the lobby. I couldn’t be sure if they’d even make change for some mope with a red face contorted in agony.
   There was no time left. I hung my suit jacket over the door and crawled under, hoping the floor was dry. It was, and clean, too. I had made it. What came out of me was a torrent of brown liquid that caused enough splashback to make that toilet seem like a bidet. After several attempts to leave the stall only to be forced back for another round of gut-wrenching bowel evacuation, I finally opened the door and headed out. The attendant had returned but I didn’t tip him. Thanks for nothing, pal.
   I went to my interview like nothing had happened. I didn’t get the job but I didn’t have to clean my suit either. 

That’s my story. Surely yours is better. If it is, we’ll stop calling you Shirley. 

Send it to nbr2otj@gmail.com.  Your highly-trained editorial staff is waiting to hear from you.

Jim Riley         Al Gioia         James Riley          Ed Riley

Here’s the fine print and other semi-legal crap:

   Before you start, here are a few ground rules. Once the publisher’s asshole lawyers get ahold of this there’ll be a whole lot more, but this is good enough for now.

1. Stories should be first-person accounts. Either it happened to you or you witnessed it happening to someone else.
2. If other people are involved, we’ll need signed authorization to use their names. Better yet, refer to them as “some guy,” “my co-worker,” “or “the douchebag in the next cubicle.”
3.  Please include your name and address. Got some balls? Tell us who you work for. If we use your story we’ll try to get you (and your boss) a free copy of the book.
4.  Don’t hold your breath. Publishers are notorious for being miserly bastards who hate to give anything away–like royalties to deserving writers.
5.  We’d like to use your real name but will withhold it on request. We don’t blame you for not wanting the world to know what happened.
6.  There is no rule six.
7.  Lots of jobs have a lingo all their own. Use it to make the story authentic. Be sure to include an explanation of any terms that might not be well-known to the general public. We’ll be contacting you if necessary.
8.  There is no minimum or maximum number of words per story but 200-300 words will fit perfectly on one page. We’re trying to keep the stories short for reading in the can. Don’t limit yourself,though. If your story needs more space to be told, let your creativity run wild. BTW, my story is 421 words.
9.  Have fun and send your story to nbr2otj@gmail.com today.

Thanks,

Jim Riley, author of "O Really, Riley?"