Bathroom Break

Ten walked away quickly, to the stairs, and then began her ascent. As the stairwell door closed behind her, Thirteen felt that much more alone. As good as it was to hold hands with another mailgirl, to have a few moments of time together, Thirteen hated to admit that sometimes she preferred to be alone. On her own, she could have had her few minutes of rest, without having to converse, without having to think of herself as anything more than naked delivery girl.

Thirteen's smartphone was still dormant. Either the delivery that Ten had been called away on had been one for which Ten had been requested specifically (which required the requestor to spend a few chits), or there were simply not that many active delivery requests at the moment. With twenty-four girls spread across forty-eight floors, and the cycle of morning breaks not yet begun, Thirteen suspected that it was the former, and wondered what sort of specific indignity awaited Ten on the 39th Floor.

And so Thirteen decided to use the time to do something productive.

"Mrs. Shean?" Thirteen asked politely. "May I have permission to use the bathroom?"

The receptionist looked up from her computer and offered and audible sigh.

Bathroom breaks were tricky. If at all possible, Thirteen preferred to empty her bladder in the mailgirls' locker room. Sure, there were six, industrial-looking toilets out in the open. Three of them faced the other three. And anyone in the elevator lobby on the far side of the locker room's mirror glass could watch, albeit with Mistress Zero's desk ever-so-slightly blocking a complete view. But bathroom breaks elsewhere in the building were an uncomfortable production, one that required a typically less than enthusiastic babysitter.

Mailgirls were not allowed privacy. There were cameras in the stairwells, and cameras in the service elevators. USF's non-mailgirl population naturally would have balked at similar arrangements in the bathroom stalls, and Thirteen understood that USF had kicked around a handful of alternatives, each one more horrifying than the last. Should they install open toilets in certain designated areas for the mailgirls to use? Should mailgirls be limited to using the men's room, and only the urinals when at all possible? What about mop sinks in the janitors' closets? Someone had even suggested to Human Capital's Will Barrow the "litter box" approach, which he'd thankfully shot down.

Instead, the agreed-upon method involved a chaperone. A mailgirl had to ask for, and be granted, permission from another USF employee. The employee, if granting the request, had to log the break on the mailgirl's smartphone (start time and end), and then follow the girl into the bathroom. Stall doors had to be left wide open, and the granting party had to stand outside and watch. It was humiliating for everyone involved. But, for Thirteen, who couldn't be sure if her break was coming as early as 9:30 or as late as 10:15, it was a necessary evil.

There were no rules or regulations as to whether a mailgirl's chaperone had to be male or female, and there were a handful of girls – Fourteen among them, Twenty-One before the "incident" a few weeks prior – who preferred men. Yes, the mailgirl then had to use the men's room rather than the women's. But most men, no matter how poorly they might treat a mailgirl otherwise, tended to ignore the rule that required them to watch. Most stood just out-of-view, around the corner from the open stall door. There was still some decency that remained at USF.

But Thirteen had found that asking a man was like playing Russian roulette. Sure, they'd grant that basic modicum of civility nine times out of ten. But every now and then, you'd stumble across that perverted creep that got off on watching a mailgirl pee. Just the thought of being leered at sexually as she emptied her bladder made Thirteen's skin crawl, and she could count on one hand how many times she'd made the request of a male coworker (acts of desperation, all) since just such an incident at occurred in late June.

Women were more predictable. A younger girl? More attractive than average? Fearful of being drafted into the mailgirl program herself, that girl would dutifully keep her eyes on the mailgirl as she peed, hating every minute of it. There were some who made awkward small talk, and others who saw this as an opportunity to just open up and heap scorn upon naked mailgirl. But it was just another embarrassment to Thirteen, and her skin had grown thick. Preferable was an older woman, or an overweight woman, or an ugly woman. Without fear of being undressed and sent downstairs to join the mailgirls, most acted the same way that most men did. The stall door stayed open, sure. They might take a quick peek to ensure they were at least partially following the rules. But they generally stayed out-of-sight, and allowed a girl a few, brief seconds of privacy.

And so, Mrs. Shean. She was in her late fifties, and still had a decent enough figure that she might have been at risk for a mailgirl program with a fetishist streak. She'd make a show of moaning and groaning about it, but she was a reliable chaperone when Thirteen was on the 33rd Floor.

"One second," the receptionist replied.

"Thank you, Mrs. Shean."

The proper form of address to all men was "sir," and "ma'am" to women. Never was a mailgirl to address an employee by their first name. But while "sir" carried with it little to no baggage, aside from submission on a girl's part, "ma'am" was a bit more loaded. There were older women, like Mrs. Shean, for whom "ma'am" wouldn't do, as it seemed to imply age. And, if she were being honest, addressing a twenty-one-year-old administrative as "ma'am" just felt awkward to twenty-six-year-old Mailgirl Number Thirteen. But "ma'am" was the default, unless instructed otherwise; it was up to the employee to tell the mailgirl to call them Mrs. So-and-So, or Ms. So-and-So, or even – shockingly common at USF since the program rolled out – the throwback of Miss So-and-So. Men could do the same, and so there were a handful of them throughout the building that Thirteen was allowed to call Mr. So-and-So.

Mrs. Shean didn't rush. She continued typing, ignoring Thirteen's request for what felt like an eternity, though was probably no more than four or five minutes. As she waited, Thirteen prayed that her smartphone wouldn't buzz, that she wouldn't be called away before being allowed a bathroom break. Thankfully, it remained dormant until the older woman decided she'd made the mailgirl wait long enough, and made her way to Thirteen. She tapped in her employee ID on Thirteen's arm, and then led the way to the women's room down the hall.

"Go ahead," Mrs. Shean instructed, and gestured to an open stall. She took up a position by the sinks, leaning against the counter, and waited.

Thirteen didn't hesitate. She dutifully left the stall door open as she sat down, offering up a "Thank you, Mrs. Shean," as she did so. She was thanking the receptionist for the bathroom break itself, but there was also an implied gratitude that Mrs. Shean was around the corner and just out of sight.