Waiting for Gouda

I’ve got problems with public restrooms.

I don’t think that’s so unreasonable. They are almost always unattractive, they often smell, and you never quite know what you’re going to find when you open the stall door. Plus, many times they are full of strangers with their naughty bits out.

They keep the bathroom in my office building locked. You might expect that it features some executive-washroom-level amenities inside which warrant protection from the hobos who wander in off the street. Perhaps dozens of precious-metal plated plumbing fixtures, or fragrant hand creams, or soft terry-cloth hand towels handed to you by an elderly mustachioed man in a tuxedo.

No. Instead:

- a small number of plain old toilets and urinals (the latter being located approximately 2.5 inches from the door)
- sometimes, liquid pink hand soap comes out of the dispenser on the wall; sometimes only dry, odorless, invisible soap comes out of the dispenser
- a single hot-air hand dryer that (a) always stays on just long enough to almost get your hands dry, and (b) means, by virtue of its singularity, that if someone is already using it, you have to pretend to be doing a really good job of washing your hands and are totally NOT waiting for them to get the hell out of the way, until they give up and wipe their hands on their pants

Also, our entire building is locked at all times. That’s two layers of protection against the hobos. But why?

There’s a sign on the back of the bathroom door that encourages people to turn out the lights if they are last one out. I think that’s a fine idea. I’m all for energy conservation. But people, as you may know, are not perfect creatures. Even such a simple equation as “last one out = lights off” and its implied corollary “someone else here = leave the damn lights on” can be difficult for a certain segment of the population to obey 100% of the time.

For example:

Not long ago, I unlocked the bathroom door and stepped inside, checking behind me to be sure that I was not being followed by hobos. I was immediately disheartened to discover that the bathroom was packed full of strangers, as many people as I had ever seen in there. Let me set the scene:

- one man at Urinal 1, looking me straight in the eye as I walk in
- one man turning away from Urinal 2, presumably just finished, heading toward Sink A on the opposite wall
- one man in transition from Sink B to the hand dryer
- one man sitting in Stall 1

Thankfully, Stall 2 was unoccupied. I dart past them all and head straight into Stall 2, close and lock the door, shuddering with the knowledge that had but one more stranger been present, I would have had to leave the room, unrelieved.

But why not use the recently vacated urinal? I hear you asking.

And to you I say, “Hell, no. What am I, a caveman?”

Just because, as a man, I can pee standing up does not mean I want to rub hips with the creepy guy from across the hall while answering the call of nature. My bladder and I refuse to use urinals in the company of other people. We prefer the dignity and seclusion that the stall walls and door provide. Yes, this can be occasionally inconvenient, for example, at the ballpark when I must wait longer for the one or two civilized enclosures. However, I have no intention of shouldering my way between a couple of fat, drunken slobs so that we call all simultaneously piss into a trough.

So there I was in Stall 2, and I figured that even though my particular urge did not strictly necessitate it, I would take a seat. If any of the jerks out there had the smallest sense of hygiene, it would be some time before the hand dryer was available anyway. Sure enough, I hear the sounds of them all, one by one, finishing up and leaving. Just as the last guy (Stall 1) was drying his hands, I prepared to stand and leave. Then, I heard the door open, and suddenly everything went black as the door closed.

I don’t mean dim. I don’t mean dark. I don’t even mean black, really. This particular restroom resides in about the geographic center of our building, so there are no windows or skylights of any kind. (This was probably by design so that there are no alternate means of hobo entry.) Not the faintest hint of light from any direction. This is the pitchiest pitch black you can imagine, like the inside of a rhinoceros (I’m guessing).

I was quite taken aback, as you can imagine, and my shout of “Hey!” went either unnoticed or unheeded by the light-switching culprit, muffled as it was by the stupid civilized stall walls. I sat for an extra moment in the awful darkness to compose myself. Then I fumbled about for a moment pulling up my pants and reaching for the stall door lock. I was particularly careful, because I seemed to recall from back in the glorious era when my eyes worked that there was coat hook on the inside of the door, and I could imagine myself panicking and accidentally gouging my own eye out.

I found that remote possibility quite amusing, because really, imagine filling out that insurance claim. So with a small chuckle, I got the door open and took a couple steps in the direction of the light switch.

And that’s when I heard the jingle of keys from the other side of the door across the room. It seemed that another authorized, totally non-hobo bathroom user was about to arrive.

And that’s when it occurred to me, for the first time in my life (as I had, thankfully, no earlier cause to consider it), that there is no very good explanation for a grown man to be hanging out and chuckling in a men’s room with the lights off. It just doesn’t look good. Quite, quite unseemly. Not to mention the fact that it would probably scare the living whatever-he’s-coming-in-here-to-do out of the poor fellow when he turned the lights on. You just don’t expect some creepy man to come lurching out of the darkness when you open the restroom door. Oh God, I was in real danger of becoming known as the creepy dark bathroom guy! Plus, I thought, what if it’s some really old guy and I give him a heart attack? Again, more ridiculous paperwork would certainly be required. Granted, I didn’t recall seeing anyone in the building who looked on the verge of keeling over from a weak ticker, but can you ever really tell?

Obviously, I had to beat him to the light switch. I had to abandon all caution. No slow staggering with arms extended like Jodie Foster at the end of The Silence of the Lambs (although she had a gun… I don’t think that would have helped me much). My reputation and possibly the life of some old guy depended on it!

There in the cloying, inky sea of darkness, I knew that I had but a split second to avert a terrible horror. My heart pounding in my chest, I dashed in the general direction of the light switch just as another telltale jingle sounded from the hall.

Oh, dear God, was I too late?!

No. I walked the approximately three steps to the light switch and turned them on, and then flung open the door. Turns out it was some lady heading into the bathroom next door.

I turned the lights back off and left. Without washing my hands.