Category: Poetry

The Hyperescalating Terror of Being Trapped Inside a Public Restroom

A public restrooms with sinks and stalls and all the stuff you'd expect from a public restroom.

Lorraine inspects her reflection.

One mirror, one stall, one sink, two doors. The savor of sauce still lingers on her tongue. Cabernet illuminates her cheeks with a rosy glow.

Hands now washed, she dries them, turns, humming all the while, and twists the silver handle.

Locked.

Lorraine frowns, twists again, wonders if she’s mistaken. The handle must be stuck, she reasons. The jam must be jammed.

So she goes on turning, tugging, wrenching, certain she’ll return to her table soon. It’s late-night date-night dinner with Ralph, lovely Ralph, husband of many years, owner of the local bookshop, vegetarian, but a good sport; he munches salad while Lorraine plays carnivore.

Does he wonder where she is? Is he worried something’s happened? For now, she fears, something has happened.

The door is locked. Bolted. Someone must’ve taken/mistaken the bathroom for empty, and now she’s stuck in here, far from the open kitchen, far from the high-top tables.

What if they can’t hear her? Is the tasteful jazz too loud? Is the bathroom getting smaller?

“Help,” she says. Then, “Help!” she cries. The standard call to action. Then several more repetitions until she loses count. “I’m trapped!” and “I think I might’ve just realized I’m claustrophobic!” and etcetera and etcetera.

No one comes. They must not hear her. Louder, Lorraine decides. I must be louder.

So she gets real damn loud. She yanks off one heel, two-inches tall, a gift from Ralph, lovely Ralph, and she proceeds to thump it on the locked door.

Still nothing. Further action required. Survival essential. Lorraine searches for something heavy, preferably a battering ram.

Finding none, she decides to build her own. The stall door. Naturally. Obviously. She hammers each hinge with her heel until they snap. The door crashes down. She catches it.

It’s heavy. Unexpectedly so. Yet Lorraine possesses panic-strength. She grunts, lifts, rams. Her freed door batters the locked one.

It’s still heavy. It’s loud. It’s working. I’m coming, Ralph! she thinks. I refuse to die in here!

Yet when she hears voices, Lorraine pauses. She turns, sees two heads poking through a door—a third door.

Yes, there is indeed a third door in the bathroom, one she hadn’t noticed, or rather, she’d forgotten she’d noticed: The stall door in her hands, the locked door she’s beating on, and ah, yes, now a third. A waitress steps through it, along with hubby Ralph, lovely Ralph, both alarmed, both perplexed.

“Miss,” whispers the waitress, “why are you breaking into the utility closet?”

Lorraine clears her throat. She daintily sets down the stall door. She smoothes down her dress.

“So,” she asks. “Dessert?”


Kyle A. Massa is a comedy author of some sort living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include seven books, along with several short stories, essays, and poems. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking cheap coffee.

This is an excerpt from Kyle’s upcoming poetry collection, Fear of Rowdy Children. Click that link to preorder today.

So Long, Time

A clock ticks on for Daylight Savings Time.

This week’s post is a poem—or rather, a gripe. Maybe a poetic gripe. Whatever it is, it goes like this:

Crankiness. Bleariness. Sadness. Despair.

But Daylight Savings Time doesn’t care.

That is all. Get a nap if you can.


Kyle A. Massa is a comedy author of some sort living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include five books, along with several short stories, essays, and poems. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking coffee.

© 2025 Kyle A. Massa

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