James Patterson’s The Beach House, what a good find! I began to flip through the introductory pages, when, much to my surprise, a middle-aged woman and her mother came into the bathroom. At first I figured they just needed to do their lavoratory duties, but neither one of them went into a stall. Not only did this intrusion interrupt my original purpose for visiting the potty, but I was starting to realize the reason why no one went into a stall – they were looking for the book!
What do I do?! I could slide the book out from under the stall and look like a crazy, pooping, thief. I could pick up my legs and let them think that there was no one in there, or that the person who was in there when they walked in had somehow magically disappeared/spontaneously combusted. I could give them a verbal queue that I had their book and would be out with it in a moment, but that would just be awkward. No, none of those would work, and I spent the next few minutes in a pusillanimous state, quiet as a mouse in a house while these two ladies tried to locate their book, which I later overheard they had not even had a chance to start (hence the wonderfully crisp pages).
After they left I emerged from the stall, chuckling at my childish behavior, and shaking my head at the book I had now officially stolen. I debated leaving the book on the sink, but figured the odds of the women coming back to check a place they had already looked were slim and none, and thusly, decided to hold on to the book for my reading pleasure. I tucked the book under my scrub top, just to further the feeling of thievery, and put the book in my drawer next to my purse; and so began my fondness for James Patterson novels. I would like to thank the two women who left the book in the bathroom that day for introducing me to one of my favorite fiction authors.