Not One Moment
The washroom, the john, the bathroom, the water closet, the toilet, the latrine is a place where all people go more than a few times within their lives. And no matter by what name it is called, all the same things happen there. Some very basic principles of human biology, both sacred and revolting, bring people together by way of necessity into the social, yet awkward gathering place that is the public restroom.
No two restrooms are the same. They all have something different about them. Aside from the obvious differences between male and female restrooms, there are amenities and effects in certain public restrooms that make them more or less accommodating than others. Some have automatic toilets, while others have diaper-changing stations. Some restrooms offer individual seat covers, some offer electric hand dryers, foam soap, or bathroom attendants. Some restrooms offer automatic sinks, but fail to offer the automatic hand dryer, which ultimately shoots the idea of cleanliness in the foot. Some bathrooms offer paper towels that are packed too tightly and you have to pick them out piece after confetti-sized piece. Some public toilets offer a fate or a vagrancy that you would have never anticipated going in there.
Some restrooms are more public than others, some are shared or have restricted access, but the principle is the same, you have to share this bathroom with strangers. The bathrooms you are obliged to use as work or at school or while out shopping or traveling are never maintained the way you would maintain your own bathroom. But then again, you wouldn't have that many people coming through to use your restroom in the first place. No, you are out in the world, and therefore you have to share the miracle of indoor plumbing with your fellow citizens. You have to share their space, their odors, their cleanliness or their lack thereof. You have to share their manners, their behavior, their reasons for doing or not doing what you think is important. You have to share the moment of looking at somebody knowing exactly what he or she is going to do knowing exactly what you just did and determine whether you think it's relevant or not to look this person in the eye or say "hello."
Many people can get a lot accomplished in the john. Some people bring the newspaper or a book, or something more personal that they had to attend to. Some people write graffiti while sitting there while still others think of great things to theorize or hypothosize about. You clear your mind as your clear your bowels. You can really get a load off while...letting a load off.
As you open the door and enter into the room, that familiar smell of human waste and cleaning compounds hits your nose, that is unless you're entering a women's restroom, in which case I can only imagine it smells overwhelmingly like peaches and floral arrangements.
You're going there with one thing in mind, to relieve this pressure that has been building in your midsection over the course of the last few hours, intensifying over the last few minutes. As you make your way towards your favorite stall, you appear to have the whole place to yourself, and so you take your time making ready your seat. You lock the door behind you, and begin to anticipate the relief you are about to feel. Your belt comes unbuckled, and your trousers slide down, and as you begin to get seated, you hear it. Somebody else is coming in!
You freeze up and your body tenses as the door comes flying open, pushed open by a whistling, lackadaisical patron of your restroom, the one you were so sure you had to yourself. For a moment, you think maybe this guy just has to go pee, and you could sit here unnoticed, silent, and wait for him to leave.
For some reason it becomes crucial for this person, this stranger, not to know what you're doing in there. It would be objectionable to accomplish what you came to accomplish knowing that somebody else is going to be witness to it. What you're about to do is best kept private, and even though you know that this other person knows what's going on, even though he is as well aware of your bodily functions as you are of his, it becomes so embarrassing to make the noises your body has to make, despite the fact that every body makes those noises.
He doesn't just stand at the urinal for thirty seconds and get out of there. He pulls open a door and plants himself right down alongside you, giving you only the space that the partition allows. With every creak of the door or the squeak of his leather shoe against the linoleum, you can picture the motion that goes along with every sound, and you follow him along in your mind going through the process that gets him to where you are.
For some reason, though, he seems so much more comfortable than you, and without reservation, he lets it fly. You sit there in silence and extreme discomfort as you are forced to listen to what goes on next to you. It seems as if the sound is amplified when you most do not want to hear it. You hear the rustling of fabric as he makes himself comfortable, you hear sniffling and grunting, as he clears his throat, you hear heavy breathing as he forces the muscles together and out again. The pushing, the squeezing, the tightening and releasing. You hear the unmistakable plop of solid hitting liquid, the muffled echo of a mass dropping into a sealed basin of water. It makes a tiny splash. You can't see it or feel it, but you know it's there. It's just over there, just beyond this small, thin divider that is mere inches away from your face.
All the while beads of sweat start rolling down your back. Your knees begin shaking from holding steady for so long. The pain is increasing as the pressure is so close to its exit but still being forced to stay where it is. You don't even notice that you've been holding your breath, and then suddenly, you can't hold it any longer. A little bit slips out, perhaps some gas, and then a little more, until you reach a point of no return and nothing can save you from the embarrassment any longer. It rushes out in a fury, as a front line of soldiers charging towards battle, and the battle cry can be heard by one and all, unifying the force as one until it reaches its murky depths.
Relief washes over you as you wipe the sweat from your brow. You breathe again, not that you'd want to, because it smells terrible. Nevertheless, it smells like victory and you take it in in full, without hesitation.
You wonder if the gentleman next door heard it, and hope that somehow he might have magically disappeared in those few seconds, but the sound of unraveling paper assures your suspicion that he was right alongside you the whole way through.
He finishes, he cleans up, he leaves, and then you do the same. You wash your hands (with soap) and check your appearance in the mirror before you exit. Shaking your head, you throw away your crumpled up paper towel, you open the door, and you leave.
In a city like New York, even in the safe refuge of a bathroom, it's hard to find even one moment of privacy.
No two restrooms are the same. They all have something different about them. Aside from the obvious differences between male and female restrooms, there are amenities and effects in certain public restrooms that make them more or less accommodating than others. Some have automatic toilets, while others have diaper-changing stations. Some restrooms offer individual seat covers, some offer electric hand dryers, foam soap, or bathroom attendants. Some restrooms offer automatic sinks, but fail to offer the automatic hand dryer, which ultimately shoots the idea of cleanliness in the foot. Some bathrooms offer paper towels that are packed too tightly and you have to pick them out piece after confetti-sized piece. Some public toilets offer a fate or a vagrancy that you would have never anticipated going in there.
Some restrooms are more public than others, some are shared or have restricted access, but the principle is the same, you have to share this bathroom with strangers. The bathrooms you are obliged to use as work or at school or while out shopping or traveling are never maintained the way you would maintain your own bathroom. But then again, you wouldn't have that many people coming through to use your restroom in the first place. No, you are out in the world, and therefore you have to share the miracle of indoor plumbing with your fellow citizens. You have to share their space, their odors, their cleanliness or their lack thereof. You have to share their manners, their behavior, their reasons for doing or not doing what you think is important. You have to share the moment of looking at somebody knowing exactly what he or she is going to do knowing exactly what you just did and determine whether you think it's relevant or not to look this person in the eye or say "hello."
Many people can get a lot accomplished in the john. Some people bring the newspaper or a book, or something more personal that they had to attend to. Some people write graffiti while sitting there while still others think of great things to theorize or hypothosize about. You clear your mind as your clear your bowels. You can really get a load off while...letting a load off.
As you open the door and enter into the room, that familiar smell of human waste and cleaning compounds hits your nose, that is unless you're entering a women's restroom, in which case I can only imagine it smells overwhelmingly like peaches and floral arrangements.
You're going there with one thing in mind, to relieve this pressure that has been building in your midsection over the course of the last few hours, intensifying over the last few minutes. As you make your way towards your favorite stall, you appear to have the whole place to yourself, and so you take your time making ready your seat. You lock the door behind you, and begin to anticipate the relief you are about to feel. Your belt comes unbuckled, and your trousers slide down, and as you begin to get seated, you hear it. Somebody else is coming in!
You freeze up and your body tenses as the door comes flying open, pushed open by a whistling, lackadaisical patron of your restroom, the one you were so sure you had to yourself. For a moment, you think maybe this guy just has to go pee, and you could sit here unnoticed, silent, and wait for him to leave.
For some reason it becomes crucial for this person, this stranger, not to know what you're doing in there. It would be objectionable to accomplish what you came to accomplish knowing that somebody else is going to be witness to it. What you're about to do is best kept private, and even though you know that this other person knows what's going on, even though he is as well aware of your bodily functions as you are of his, it becomes so embarrassing to make the noises your body has to make, despite the fact that every body makes those noises.
He doesn't just stand at the urinal for thirty seconds and get out of there. He pulls open a door and plants himself right down alongside you, giving you only the space that the partition allows. With every creak of the door or the squeak of his leather shoe against the linoleum, you can picture the motion that goes along with every sound, and you follow him along in your mind going through the process that gets him to where you are.
For some reason, though, he seems so much more comfortable than you, and without reservation, he lets it fly. You sit there in silence and extreme discomfort as you are forced to listen to what goes on next to you. It seems as if the sound is amplified when you most do not want to hear it. You hear the rustling of fabric as he makes himself comfortable, you hear sniffling and grunting, as he clears his throat, you hear heavy breathing as he forces the muscles together and out again. The pushing, the squeezing, the tightening and releasing. You hear the unmistakable plop of solid hitting liquid, the muffled echo of a mass dropping into a sealed basin of water. It makes a tiny splash. You can't see it or feel it, but you know it's there. It's just over there, just beyond this small, thin divider that is mere inches away from your face.
All the while beads of sweat start rolling down your back. Your knees begin shaking from holding steady for so long. The pain is increasing as the pressure is so close to its exit but still being forced to stay where it is. You don't even notice that you've been holding your breath, and then suddenly, you can't hold it any longer. A little bit slips out, perhaps some gas, and then a little more, until you reach a point of no return and nothing can save you from the embarrassment any longer. It rushes out in a fury, as a front line of soldiers charging towards battle, and the battle cry can be heard by one and all, unifying the force as one until it reaches its murky depths.
Relief washes over you as you wipe the sweat from your brow. You breathe again, not that you'd want to, because it smells terrible. Nevertheless, it smells like victory and you take it in in full, without hesitation.
You wonder if the gentleman next door heard it, and hope that somehow he might have magically disappeared in those few seconds, but the sound of unraveling paper assures your suspicion that he was right alongside you the whole way through.
He finishes, he cleans up, he leaves, and then you do the same. You wash your hands (with soap) and check your appearance in the mirror before you exit. Shaking your head, you throw away your crumpled up paper towel, you open the door, and you leave.
In a city like New York, even in the safe refuge of a bathroom, it's hard to find even one moment of privacy.
posted by Leland J. Fischer at 12:46 AM
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