Human beings are funny little things. On the surface they seem to be nothing more than primates with delusions of grandeur. Yet beyond the simian exterior there seems to be something more, an inexplicable essence encapsulated within the species. In humanity’s not-so-humble opinion, we are capable of vast feats that surpass the greatest abilities of our animal cousins. It is this self-realization, or sentience, that gives us further distinction. Some call it having a “soul”, others a delusion. Are human beings fleshy houses for immortal souls or simply talking bits of carbon? I feel this question may be beyond my expertise. For, on the one hand we have art, civilization, technology, and the Snuggie. On the other we have war, hatred, violence, and the G.O.P. These things all speak for an unlimited dichotomous potential within each of us. Whatever the case may be, in my personal opinion, there is one thing that supports the idea that we are something special: bathrooms.
Bathrooms, as we call them in the States, are a uniquely human phenomenon. I feel that they represent the most tangible evidence that this “quintessence of dust” is more than the sum of it’s parts. Our apotheosis rests upon this development. The need to rid oneself of unusable waste is common to all life forms. It is quite unavoidable. In fact, this autonomic function is in the best interest of our species’ survival. While this activity is shared by humans and goldfish alike, there is one major factor that distinguishes us: we are embarrassed by it. Homo Sapiens find this act awkward and distasteful, and go to great lengths to keep it private. Thus the development of the bathroom. This creation alienates us from all other life on the planet. I can’t imagine a giraffe being ashamed of defecation. But humans are, and rightly so, in my estimation.
In fact, I am a crusader for the cause of bathroom privacy. My idea of a perfect bathroom would be a concrete bunker tucked away under a mountain, locked by a steel door three feet thick, with eye recognition security locks. It would be hermetically sealed, and soundproof. The exhaust fans would be made out of military grade turbine engines. Brahms would be piped in through state of the art speakers. A virtual-reality panorama would encompass the walls, projecting idyllic settings and pastoral imagery. Unfortunately I must accept crude, scaled down versions of this inspired creation for now. But there is one thing I cannot accept. One disgusting concept that I will attack with every fiber of my being until the day I am flushed out of this life: the public restroom.
Mother Nature can be a cruel and fickle mistress. One of the vilest tricks in her repertoire is sending us the urge to expel waste when we are in a public place. When this happens to me I have an internal argument between myself and my psyche. The former I will call Brandon, and the latter, Brian.
Brandon says, “Oh man, I have to go to the bathroom.”
Brian replies, “Are you insane? Do you not realize that we are in a public place, and your only recourse would be to use a communal toilet?”
“I am only too aware. And you know that I’m with you on this, but I’m afraid I have no choice.”
“What are you, a Calvinist? Of course you have a choice! Your will is free!”
“My will cannot conquer the laws of nature; I must comply. What if I get a bladder infection by waiting?”
“Dammit! You are right, of course. Stupid corporeal shell!”
And so, the point is conceded and I must obey my body’s call. It feels as though all eyes are upon me as I make the walk of shame away from the safety of the herd and venture towards the hell that awaits. I wax melodramatic and think of myself as Sydney Carton on his way to the guillotine, guilty of a crime I did not commit. People look on in shame at my inability to wait. Yet I am no scoundrel; I do this to better myself, and all of humanity. I hold my head up high, stumbling over my own feet, and approach my doom with bitter fatalism. It is a far, far better thing that I do…
The first obstacle is the door, and I break upon it like a Persian at Thermopylae. The soiled handle fills my vision with malevolent menace, like Scrooge’s door knocker. Only this time, it is not a spirit which animates it, but bacteria. I imagine the germs becoming macroscopic and writhing around on the surface of the handle. I usually prefer to kick the door open, but this can carry the wrong message to the ill-fated gentleman who has the misfortune of exiting the lavatory at this precise moment. It is safer to use a shoulder, or an elbow. Once inside I urgently reconnoiter the situation. The line of urinals spread out before my vision like distorted cubicles of filth. If they are empty, my situation is greatly improved. I can complete my task with impunity, getting in and out while humming the “A-Team” song and returning to the outside world in great haste.
If, on the other hand, they are occupied, my options become limited. The stalls are a tempting escape because of their privacy, but they can contain an insidious peril. Evidence of pervious barbaric occupants fill me with loathing and I become nauseated. But I will use them if I have to. In a worst case scenario, there are people both at the urinals and in the stalls. If this happens, then the privacy of the stalls is no longer a comfort, as a dystopian symphony emanates from therein, creating a cacophony of horrific sounds. And the urinals filled with other men, standing in close proximity are at best a consolation prize. But if there is no other course of action, I must approach the crowded urine receptacles. Sometimes there are dividers between them, which I see as proof of a benevolent universe. If there are no dividers, I cast my vote for a malevolent one, for I must stand shoulder to shoulder with brutes who have no conception of how awkward the situation is. My mind races to find some thought to take me away from the disgraceful present into a happy place of imagination. I desperately try to ignore the fact that I am surrounded by penises and liquid waste.
This mental exercise is not foolproof, because there is an unspeakable act which can drag me out of my reverie and down into the pits of Tartarus. I speak of course, of the act of speaking to one another while engaged in this activity. I don’t understand this trend. Can’t we pretend to be alone? What is the advantage of conversation during this time? It’s not a social event, for God’s sake! I can’t concentrate under such stressful conditions. And to exacerbate the situation, most of the troglodytes who engage in this behavior talk about things I can’t relate to.
They say, “Hey, did you see the game last night?” or something that showcases their bad taste, like “Dude, I’ve had way too many Keystone Lights.”
My God, I think. How can I condescend to speak to such a savage?
So I say something like, “Actually, last night I watched an episode of Star Trek, wherein Spock’s brain was stolen by space hookers. And under no circumstances would I ever drink a lower tier, watered down, light, Domestic beer!”
This usually confuses the person long enough for me to make my escape. I wash my hands desperately, trying not to touch anything directly except for soap and water. I kick the door open with abandon, and dash back into the civilized world. But the journey back to the crowd is difficult as well. I left the bathroom in great haste, and didn’t fully dry my hands. Now I don’t know what to do with them. I didn’t have a chance to inspect myself in the mirror before I left. Is my shirttail caught in my zipper? Do I have toilet paper clinging to my shoe? Was there any spillage? I scan the crowd, looking for any sign of disgust or amusement. I have an irrational fear that they will think that I performed the more heinous and time consuming activity whilst in there. I NEVER will EVER do that in a public restroom, come what may. This is an unfair accusation. Finally, I can’t take it any longer, and cry out, “I’ve only just urinated. It was mostly water.”
T
oo late I grasp the fact that this has made the situation much worse than silence would have. Now it is clear that I have discovered the definitive thing that separates human beings from the lower life-forms: neurosis. What a piece of work is man…
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