You Can’t Touch This
There I was, minding my own business, as you do, going to the bathroom.
My pager, conveniently clipped onto my waist band, flipped onto the floor when I pull up my pants. The pager shattered into three distinct pieces: body, battery cover, battery.
Body and battery cover were fairly well behaved and remained at my feet. The battery, however, decided to make a run for it and rolled to the lowest point on the floor.
The drain.
You know that drain in public bathrooms where all the dirty water is sent after washing the horrible horrors that happen in the public bathrooms at hospitals? That is where my battery stopped. Also, with my battery, a pair of shoes. A pair of shoes attached to a set of feet. Feet that belonged to the young woman in the stall where my battery decided to take up residence.
I could have run, but I decided to be brave and face the poor person whose private time was interrupted by my freedom seeking battery. She was nice enough to pick it up and hand it to me. She was also kind enough to warn me: “It was kind of wet, I don’t know what it was in, here,” as she handed me my battery wrapped in toilet paper.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her what exactly is washed down that drain. I took it from her, and thanked her profusely, dried off the battery, washed my hand and left without further incident.
I now have a new battery.