The Terror of Small Windowless Bathrooms and Avian Hostage Situations.

I was a full-blown adult by the time I realized that it’s not normal to experience fear every time one enters a small windowless bathroom. All is fine until my hands are washed and I reach for that knob, ready to rejoin polite society. If there is even a hint of resistance, my heart starts to race. With a speed faster than my brain can create words, hand on knob, I’m imagining myself still in this bathroom weeks later. Thin and hungry, attempting to eat the bathmat for fiber, with no one to rescue me. But thank god for the tap I think, I’ll survive if there is water, right? I’ll have a good 30 days until a bathroom rescue becomes a recovery mission. I turn the knob, the door opens. The exhilaration I feel as the non-bathroom air hits my face correlates directly with the level of resistance I got when opening the door. Freedom. My heart races with euphoric relief.

Memories are funny. Sometimes they sit in file folders that are forever on your desk being reviewed for no good reason on an almost daily basis, and others are placed at the back of the file cabinet and we forget that they even existed until someone pulls them out (if ever). I’ve always been mildly aware of my “Alexa fears small windowless bathrooms” folder, but it’s been at the back of the pile for so long, I forgot about why I had a folder to being with.

My childhood best friend Sarah lived in the next town over. Her parents were from Canada, like mine, so our friendship was a result of their connection. Sarah had FUN parents. As a child, I told my own that if the scenario arose, and I had to choose, I would want Sarah’s parents. This seemed like a perfectly reasonable thing to say. They let us create our own cake recipes, resulting in festive looking cakes that tasted like salt and flour, only edible thanks to sweet, prepackaged frosting. We would put on mini recitals for them, dressing up in sequined costumes and singing songs. They liked to watch exciting movies. How else would I have discovered the joys of Yentl? Can you blame me?

Sarah’s family had a great house. It wasn’t a new construction with cardboard walls and flimsy fixtures. It was solid, with high ceilings, plaster walls, and certain grandeur that welcomed you in the form of pillars when you entered the living room. Three floors of potential fun for kids to play in. The first two floors had the usual living spaces where everyone spent 99% of their time, but the 3rd floor was different. It had two rooms, one of which had its own bathroom. It was the kind of bathroom that seldom gets used and was probably on the “to renovate someday” list. Sometimes we would play up there, it felt so far away from the adults…

I don’t remember how it all went down, but we were on the third floor in that small bathroom, probably applying makeup in all the ill-advised ways that 3rd graders in the late 80's could come up with, and upon our exit, the door WOULD NOT OPEN. I remember panic. We yelled, we banged on the door. Nothing. One or both of us may have started crying in full dramatic fashion. After all, we were now going to live out the rest of our blue eyeshadow-ed, pink lipstick-ed lives in that bathroom. If I’d known how this was going to go, I might have changed out of the dress up clothes I was wearing; a sequin skirt and crop top, and into more functional garments before checking myself in to an eternal bathroom stay. At some point we were rescued. And we were fortunate; we weren't up there long enough to necessitate prayer and sacrifice to the toilet paper gods.

This episode would have remained at the back of my mental folder, long since forgotten, but Sarah’s mom made a casual comment not long ago about our getting stuck in the bathroom. And it all came back to me. Years of panic. I realized in that moment that I’d known the source all along. It had just become foggy, like a dream, an evaporation leaving an eternal haze that I could never quite escape. This moment of revelation brought the folder and all its files to the forefront. It explained why so many bathroom exits in my life have been colored with the same panicked brush.

When I graduated from college back in 2003, I had no idea what to do with myself. The internet was in its early days, so going online to find a job wasn't the obvious approach. My mom suggested I contact her friend Carol who was working at a newly opened real estate brokerage in town. I met with her and she gave me the job of office admin, answering phones, and helping with listings.

Post-College Alexa living at home.

I had a great time working with the agents. Fresh out of college and free from the responsibilities of a family and mortgage, they often offered me side gigs, like house sitting. Sally, one of the agents, approached me with a lucrative house-sitting job, it involved a few animals and picking up the newspaper. It meant that I'd get to sleep and hangout somewhere else than my parents' house for the next 10 days. I was game.

I made these mini agents.Carol 3rd from L, Sally is 5th.

Sally was an animal person. Big into horseback riding, she also had a dog and 2 birds. I'd never taken care of birds before, but she assured that it would be fine. Prior to starting the job, she invited me over to her house to familiarize myself with the situation. We walked through the usual duties, picking up newspapers, where I would sleep, which lights stayed on, and feeding and walking the dog. Then came the birds. She had an Umbrella Cockatoo and an African Gray. They lived in large cages that sat opposite each other at the end of the kitchen, near the breakfast table. For domesticated birds, Sally's birds lived a great life. During the day, while at home, they could roam, cage free. They would fly around and then sit on her shoulder; the African grey would say a few words. Sally showed me how to prepare their food of fresh fruits and seeds. I was excited. I had visions of hanging out at the kitchen table with a friendly bird on my shoulder. Like a Westchester Dr. Doolittle.

It was a rainy Saturday when Sally left for her 10-day vacation. I worked at the real estate office on Saturdays, so I arrived at Sally's around 7am to do the first solo feed of my house-sitting stay before going to the office at 9am. I was ready.

I acknowledge that I was equal parts excited and apprehensive about giving the birds their post-breakfast, free flying, recreational hour without Sally. But this was the beginning of our 10-day time together, and after all, this wasn't their first rodeo, they knew the drill. I forged ahead, ignoring a feeling of impending doom, and carefully chopped up their fresh fruit breakfast and slid it into their cages. They seemed to be enjoying my fine culinary skills. All was going according to plan. I Imagined how highly I would be regarded by friends and family as I told them how I had befriended some birds who would sit on my shoulder and coo. I would fill in well for Sally as their human mom. And so, I opened their cage doors.

My mom rarely went away when I was a kid, but there were a few times she left us to visit family, leaving me, my brother Chris, and my dad to carry on with our daily activities. It wasn't a strict household, but we only had soda on special occasions and the craziest cereal we were permitted to have was Honey Nut Cheerios. I could only dream about the sweet, sweet joy of Fruit Loops or Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Sleepovers at friends' houses became the ultimate sugar cereal binge. And although Chris and I never asked my mom for the good stuff, we knew an opening when we saw one. With my mom out of town, my dad, who was usually working away in his office, was left to do the necessary activities, like grocery shopping. Naturally he took Chris and I with him, so we could pick out "what we usually buy". Chris and I took a liberal interpretation of "usually" but proceeded with caution. Once at the store my dad wanted to divide and conquer, why not use the full force of the squad to speed up the activity? He told us to go and get what we needed. Chris was probably the first to test the waters with something like, "ok dad, I'm just going to go and get the.......P e p s i". A slow delivery intended to blunt the impact of a swift "no" was met with an unexpected, "ok, just go get it so we can get out of here". Knowing that lightening doesn't strike twice, but willing to risk it, I chimed in with an equally slow "and I'll get the.........A p p l e J a c k s" with the kind of inflection that implies a question. And again, I was met with an unimpressed response about getting it so we can go home. It was anarchy and we were loving it. By this point we were probably ordering my dad to hurry up (complete with eye roll) and get the Cheetos and cookies, so we could get home. When the cat is away the mice will play.

My bird-as-a-friend fantasy was not without merit. When Sally introduced me to the birds at our housesitting intro meeting, they flew around the room and perched on things. They would sit on her shoulder and let her kiss their beaks. They were loving, in an avian kind of way. Although, there was one minor incident which maybe should have broken the spell, where one of the birds came over to sit on my shoulder in what seemed friendly, and then bit down on my cheek. HARD. Like really hard and it wouldn't let go until Sally rushed over and removed him. It hurt. It left a bruise. That beak was built for cracking nuts. And there it was, clamped down on my delicate 22-year-old cheek. I know what you're thinking. And I don't have an answer. I had a dream, and it was going to come true. I was going to bond with those birds.

Photo of an Umbrella Cockatoo from the internet.

Now that Sally was gone and it was just me and my bird friends, it was time to open the cage door. They'd had their breakfast and they were ready to fly. I pulled the hood of my sweatshirt up around my head, as the cheek biting incident left me slightly shy. Sure enough, they were happy to leave their cages and began living their best lives. One bird was an African Grey Parrot, on the smaller side, liked to talk (knew some words) and hung out near the cage. The other bird was a larger, Umbrella Cockatoo named Body (at least that's what I remember). Once Body was released for his post breakfast fly, took off flying around the room. This was slightly unnerving, but we were going to be friends, so let the games begin. Body had lots of toys, so I attempted to engage him in some fun. The fun swiftly took a turn when I realized that he was more focused on me than the toy. As I slowly walked backwards, Body flew from one part of the kitchen counter to the next. With each step back that I took he landed closer and closer to me. And then, he flew at me, like, at MY FACE.

I've never injured an animal. Unless you count the tragic hamster incident of 1987, when the class hamster escaped from his cage while spending the weekend at MY house. Thanks, little dude, that wasn't hard to explain to the entire class... I thought he was never to be heard from again, but my parents later revealed that he was in fact found, deceased, in a plastic milk jug in the basement. They just didn't want to tell me. I swear, I did not leave that cage door open. I have never wavered on this account.

You don't know how you will react when a large, seemingly angry bird, dive bombs your face at 7am on a Saturday morning, until it happens to you. You don't think. There is no time to think. Your body responds quickly for maximum self-preservation using the path of least resistance. In an instant, there was a flash of white feathers and my own arm colliding in space. Body was on the ground, a pile of feathers and a beak. In the next instant, my inner voice screams. OH SHIT. I KILLED SALLY'S BIRD. I AM DEAD. I WILL FLEE THE COUNTRY.

Have you ever had a dream where you've done something really really bad, and you don't know how you are going to fix it? The dread of knowing that you've somehow permanently messed up the trajectory of the rest of your life? I have. It's a reoccurring type of dream, I wake up in terror and am then overwhelmed with the euphoric relief of realizing it's not real. Body was on the ground. It was real. I only had a moment to process my next steps in fleeing the country when I saw signs of life. He was gathering himself. He was standing up. He was alive. But I might be dead.

Northern Westchester is not known for its great cell phone service. And I can say that with full confidence because in a span of 2 seconds, when I was making decisions that might spell life or death for me, I knew to grab both my cell phone AND the cordless landline phone, before bolting into A SMALL WINDOWLESS BATHROOM.

I closed the door behind me with the ferocity of a desperate ship captain sealing off a part of the ship that is flooding, just before the wall of water hits. I triaged the situation. Four walls, sink and toilet, NO WINDOW. My heart sunk; I was in a small windowless bathroom, my personal hell. Immediately my brain showed me the story of how the next 10 days would go. No one would hear my screams. Sally would return a week and half later, birds flying around, me thin, but hydrated and slightly delirious from being in solitary. I vowed that I would eat the hand towels if necessary. I hope the dog can fend for himself.

Safe from Body, but now a bathroom captive, I needed to know if the situation was salvageable and if there was a route for escape. I took a few deep breaths and opened the door just a crack. Body saw me, flew over to the door, screaming. When an Umbrella Cockatoo screams, it's ear drum piercing, the sound is paralyzing, you can't even think. I instinctively and swiftly pulled the door closed. He knew what was up. I regrouped, this was ridiculous, I told myself that I was a full-grown adult and this was a bird. I opened the door just an inch. I saw nothing, heard nothing. I contemplated an escape. Out of nowhere Body dove head on towards the door again, screaming. I slammed it shut before he got to me. My heart was racing and I was in a panic. His shadow danced back a forth, taunting me, in the space between the bottom of the door and the floor. And I could hear the pitter patter of his little bird feet on the kitchen tile as he paced back and forth outside the bathroom door, keeping watch. He was not going to let me out of that bathroom. The dog was barking, I was a hostage, it was mayhem.

Although in complete flight or fight mode (no pun intended), I was still a punctual individual and realized that I would not be at work on time as I was in .... a situation. I had both my cell phone (for the #s) and the landline for the service so I called Carol and told her that I could not make it into work on time because, I was being held hostage by a bird. I'm sure she had heard many excuses for tardiness in her day, but this had to be a first. I also think that Carol imagined Body to be much closer to a Parakeet than Pterodactyl. She tried to reason with me. "Can't you just throw a towel over its head and put in back in the cage?", she asked. I surveyed the bathroom. The facecloth sized towels on the rack were NOT going to cut it. I was going to be late. Assuming I survived.

Loneliness quickly set in. How would this end? Who could I call? I was living with my parents at the time, and they were away that weekend. My boyfriend was on a camping trip and at 22 years old, all my friends were still sleeping pre-9am on a Saturday morning. I cracked the door open again. Body was on the kitchen counter, his little head riffling through my purse. As soon as I opened the door, his head popped up, my chapstick hanging from his mouth. Our eyes locked for a moment and then he flung my chapstick across the room and tried to dive bomb the door again. "Bad bird!" I yelled, in vain and slammed the door. I was back in my bathroom prison.

I thought I was imagining it, but I heard what sounded like voices coming from outside. Could I be saved??? I soon realized that a few workmen were just outside the front door doing some house maintenance. It was now or never. I waited until Body had left his post outside the bathroom door and bolted as fast as my legs would carry me to the front door, slamming it behind me so Body wouldn't escape. He followed me in pursuit and ended up in the entry way screaming at me through the window. The workmen were surprised to see someone. I was out of breath, speaking quickly, rambling about what had happened, gesturing wildly and telling them that I didn't know what to do, pointing back at the Body through the window. After a series of confused expressions and few words, I realized the workmen were trying to tell me that they didn't speak English. Desperate, I used my best charades to explain my predicament, but it was a dead end. They smiled and nodded. I felt defeated and considered reentry. I could not run away from this situation.

In my early thirties I had the extreme privilege of living sans-roommate in NYC. New York is so expensive that it's not unusual for people to live with other non-family members, forever. I had been living with some roommates that I'd found on Craigslist (isn't that how all nightmare stories begin) and it wasn't working out. I was desperate. Amazingly, the NYC real estate Gods smiled down on me and I found a small 1 bedroom-ish apartment in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. It was an older pre-war building, the stairway steps were stone, the pipes were loud, and you'd have to open all your windows in the winter because the heat was cranked up so high, but it was solid. It had character.

If you weren't from NYC, you'd probably think it was a terrible deal, $1200 for a small room that had been divided up into three very small rooms to make one cozy apartment. There were NO closets. None. And the bathroom contained only a very small sink, and a toilet that was installed on an angle to preserve space. Little pastel tiles in various states of disrepair lined the bathroom, giving it a mix of retro charm and sadness. There was one door in the apartment which visitors would always point out, as if the first to discover it, and say, "Look, you do have a closet!". The apartment was a palatial 300sqft. There had to be dozens of closets that I had not yet noticed.

My hallyway/kitchen. Coat is hanging on "closet" door.

When the real estate agent showed me the apartment, almost apologetic about its size and bathroom layout, I too was curious about this door. It was in the kitchen/hallway right next to the bathroom. I opened what appeared to be a closet door and I was faced with a shower curtain, behind which was a shower. It was a shower, in a closet. I'm sure this was an afterthought, maybe the building originally had communal baths or showers, or perhaps a bathtub in the kitchen. Regardless, there it was, a shower in a closet, with just a small cut out for ventilation close to the ceiling, that opened to the bathroom on the other side of the wall.

THE SHOWER CLOSET. Door open.

Having a shower closet isn't all bad. It definitely puts the shower in the "out of sight, out of mind" category. Clean the shower? What shower?! I haven't seen that thing in ages. Stepping out of the shower into the kitchen took some getting used to, but I didn't care, I had no roommates and I loved it. At one point I realized that this shower closet might be a blessing in disguise. I was mid-shower with a really bad cold and it dawned on me that the steam might help my congestion. The shower curtain only did so much to keep the steam in, but I also had a door. Maybe I should just close it? I was feeling pretty smug about this discovery. So, I closed the door.

Breathing in all of that steam was therapeutic. My mind bounced between thoughts of how amazing my life was and let's be real, I was basically living in a spa. How had I not thought of this before. NYC is an easy place to feel like a have-not, but in this moment, I felt like I had something no one else had, my own personal steam room. After my little self-congratulatory party of one, I turned off the water. Suddenly it dawned on me. I'd never closed this door from the inside, what if it didn't open from the inside??? What if it's an outdoor knob only?? Is that even a thing!!?

Bathroom + Shower closet. So close, yet so far away.

I didn't reach for the doorknob right away. Heart racing, I allowed my mind to imagine all the possibilities before I met my fate, as if being prepared would insulate me from an unpalatable outcome. I was naked. No towel in this shower closet. At first, I would be cold and wet. I would attempt to fit my body through the cut out near the ceiling, maybe I would fit, no I definitely would not fit, nor would I be able to get up there. Then I would air dry, but I might still be cold. I would be hungry but could drink from the shower head when necessary. I would scream, but would anyone hear me? And, even if they did, would they be able to determine where it was coming from? I was at a place in my life where it would definitely be a few days before anyone sent for a welfare check. What had I done?????? I accepted all possible fates and reached for the knob. It turned and the door opened. I had rescued myself. I would never close that door while in the shower ever again.

Standing outside Sally's house, phones in hand, Body the bird screaming at me from inside, I decided to make one last attempt at phoning for help before I considered the most dramatic option of calling the local police for suggestions. I was certain they hadn't dealt with many bird hostage situations, but I was also certain they'd dealt with crazier things. My boyfriend at the time was supposed to be on the road, heading off on a camping trip with his dad, but he was great with animals, so I gave it one last shot. He answered. Turns out they decided last minute to cancel the trip because it was raining. THANK GOD FOR THESE SENSIBLE CAMPERS.

Twenty minutes later my boyfriend arrived. I didn't want to go back inside because I was certain Body would attack me, but my boyfriend insisted as he didn't know the layout of the house. He opened the door. I followed, laying low, walking in a sort of hunched crouch, protecting my head, and staying one room behind him as he explored. Suddenly he called casually from the next room, "I see him, what should I do?". I told him to walk up and put his arm out for Body to hop on (or at least theoretically that is how it should work). "Ok, he's on my arm, I'll put him in the cage". And just like that, without any drama, Body happily jumped onto this stranger’s arm and went back into his cage. The other bird was also an easy return. My boyfriend was confused, as this whole event seemed so easy for him to resolve. I think he thought I was just being dramatic. Why did this happen to me? Could Body sense my fear? Was he just messing with me? We will never know. I made it to work late and completely exhausted after my hours long standoff and accompanying adrenaline surge.

I called Sally that night and told her that the birds would have to stay caged for the next 10 days until she returned. I felt bad about it, but I wasn't going to play that game again. I happily fed the birds and tried to talk to them like old friends. To my horror, a few days after the incident, the African Grey spoke a new phrase: "What the hell". I thought I was imagining it, but after a repeat performance I knew it was real. Clearly, I had set a good example. A few weeks after Sally returned, she told me that Body had started exploring parts of the kitchen that had never been of interest. He started spending time near both the bathroom door and near the stairs off the kitchen which led down to the room I'd been sleeping in. HE WAS STILL LOOKING FOR ME. Maybe he still is.

At 40, I have learned that doors can be removed from their hinges, and knobs unscrewed, freeing innocent captives who just needed to pee. I understand that avian hostage situations can have happy outcomes. I know now that shower closets can be convenient, but they will never be steam rooms. And although a seemingly unlockable door in 3rd grade may still haunt my bathroom trips, I'm forging ahead. I know all of this. But next time I enter a small windowless bathroom, I'm still checking the lock first.