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chapterone
selena
Thereare two things in life women worry about that men will never understand.Showingup somewhere and finding another woman wearing exactly the same outfit as you and not being able to find a bathroom when you need one.Thefirst one usually isn’t a problem for me.Mypersonal style incorporates a lot ofA-line dresses, bold prints, and no pants except yoga pants.Theonly muffin topsI’minterested in are the streusel-covered onesImake at my bakery,Ladycakes.Butthe second fearIlive with on a daily basis.It’slike knowing the most direct route to the nearest bathroom is my lifeline.WhenIgo on vacation,Ipack likeIexpect to have at least three accidents a day.Atleast.
AndnowI’mface to face with my fear.WhydidItry to squeeze in two extra deliveries today, soIwas super late to the last one that had to be delivered today?WhydidIgo back for the satin scrunchie thatIdropped whenIwas pulling the paper delivery bags off from over my wrist?Itwas too late to head all the way to this part of town and then get all the way back downtown before heading home.I’mgoing to be stuck inL.A. rush hour traffic for the rest of my life.I’mnever going to get back home in time forRoyallyArrangedwith my girlfriends.
AndIhave to pee.
Afterdropping off my last delivery of three dozen custom cupcakes for a party tonight,Itried to find a bathroom with no luck.
Thecupcakes were pretty cute.Whitevanilla cupcakes with pink and turquoise swirled vanilla frosting on top, and little guitars thatImade of pressed sugar.Icouldn’t find a one measly bathroom in this gargantuan glass monstrosity of a building.Ihaven’t seen a wall made of anything other than glass except for the elevators.Thisplace reminds me of one of those prisonsIlearned about in my first-year psychology class at college.Thekind where the guards are always watching you.Panoplies?Panopticons?Idon’t remember, but it was definitely something that sounded like aTransformer.
Myfoot taps against the metal floor as the elevator doors open and close on nearly every floor, whileIfantasize about magically stumbling upon a line-free ladies’ room in the lobby.Ididn’t clock any bathrooms on my way in, but my fingers are crossed.
Halfthe time, no one even gets in when the elevator doors slide open, making me want to scream.I’mtapping the screen of my phone in the same cadence as my foot is tapping on the floor.Thisis the elevator ride from hell.Itfeels likeI’mnever going to get out of this elevator.Ilive here now.Ishould craft myself a bed in the corner out of scarves and takeout napkins.Turnthe other side into my living room for, you know, when visitors come over.
Whenwe reach the lobby, everyone gets out except for me—standing at the very back of the elevator in what is soon-to-be my makeshift bedroom becauseIapparently live here now—and some tall guy at the front with his head down staring at his phone.
Thedoors shut, and we start descending to the parking levels.TheLadycakesdelivery van is parked in an accessible parking spot onP1.I’mrisking getting a ticket, but the loading bay out back was full andIcouldn’t fit the massive van into any of the narrow sets of white lines in the regular spots.Afterthree spectacularly poor attempts and even more judgmental looks from people parking their tiny convertible sports cars and hybrids all the way down onP4,Igave up and drove back up toP1and parked in an accessible stall.I’ma terrible person.Noone needs to convince me.
EventhoughIdo just about everything atLadycakes, driving the delivery van isn’t usually part of my job.Imake the desserts.Iperfect the recipes.Ladycakesis my business.Mybaby business.We’reonly three years old, and just getting on our feet after a few really, really shitty years for the service industry.So, when anything goes wrong, it’s my job to take over.Andusually that’s no problem.Unlessit comes to a two-and-a-half-tonne delivery truck.Idrive aPrius, and that’s the size of carI’mcomfortable with.DrivinginL.A. traffic is no joke, even in aPrius.Butin a massive delivery van, it’s a nightmare.
Now,Ihave to peeandface a couple of hours inL.A.Fridaynight traffic in a beast of a delivery van,andImight be about to find a parking ticket thatIreally can’t afford on the dash of the aforementioned van.Ontop of all of that,I’mgoing to have to pull over somewhere—and illegally parkagain—just to use a coffeeshop bathroom becauseIcouldn’t find one in this dumb building.AndI’llprobably buy a twelve-dollar iced latte becauseI’dfeel too guilty using the bathroom ifIdidn’t buy something.Whyare the bathrooms so hard to find in this dumb building?Maybethere aren’t any?Allthe walls are glass, and it’s probably illegal to have a bathroom with glass walls.
Beforewe reachP1, the elevator jerks to a stop.
Ilook around likeI’mexpecting someone to appear magically in the elevator next to me with some answers.Thetall guy looks up from his phone.Hemoves to the other side of the elevator where the button panel is and starts pressing buttons.Justlike a man to hit all the buttons before thinking it through.He’sprobably going to send us on another tour up and down the building, stopping on every floor beforeIcan get back to my delivery van and find a bathroom.Great.Justfreaking great.
“Maybestop hitting random buttons?”Myvoice sounds shrill.Probablymore than just a little bit shrill.Ithink the intense need to pee is affecting my vocal cords.Thatcan’t be a good sign.
“Whydidn’tIthink of that?”Theguy mutters, but doesn’t turn back to look at me.
“Isn’tthere a phone or something?Inmovies, there’s always a phone in the elevator.”
Hedoesn’t turn to look at me.Rude.
“Thisisn’t nineteen-eighty-six.Elevatorsdon’t have phones in them.”
“Andyou’re an elevator expert?”
“Morethan you are, apparently.”
“Look,Ijust don’t… love small spaces.Isthere a button to call for help or something?”
“Yeah.”
“Haveyou pressed it?”
“Inever would have thought of that.Thankfucking god you’re here, lady.”
Hejerks his hand at the button panel, and a loud, flat dial tone fills the elevator.Apparently, hedidneed to be told to press the button to call for help.Colorme unsurprised that a man had to be told to ask for help, even in what is clearly an emergency.
Thedial tone beeps steadily for almost a solid minute before anyone answers.Thesound echoes off the close walls around us.Ireallydon’t like small spaces.EspeciallywhenI’mtrapped in them.
“Hello?”
“Hi, yeah, we’re stuck in an elevator.Isthere a button we can push to get the doors open or something?”
