I’m standing in front of the urinal while that feeling of a good pee trickles through my body. Another man enters the restroom. He stands next to me but I can’t see his face. It’s not the appropriate time to make eye contact. Trust me. My peripherals tell me he’s wearing a bluish shirt and my ears say he likes flip flops. I hear his sigh of relief while I’m staring at the today’s Sports section, enclosed in glass, unconvinced that another juiced-up baseball player is any real news these days. I complete the urination process; shake, zip and flush. I think to myself, “Man, flip flops and urinals are two things that should never go together. I need to wear shoes more often.”
As I stand in front of the mirror, water running and soaping my hands, I hear the sound of another urinal flush. The man must be finished; we were the only two in the room. I scoot to the side to give him some room at the sink. He never shows up. The sound of the bathroom door opens along with a roar of patrons. The unidentified mammal did not wash his hands. There is a wild animal on the loose! I feel obligated to notify the public. I leave the bathroom, using the paper towel to grab the handle of the door because numb-nuts just forced me to. I hold the door open with my foot, roll up the wet paper into a ball, shoot… and miss once again. Yes, I’m the reason those wet wads of paper litter the floor. I’m a horrible shot.
I’ve been tempted to say something to these culprits, but I’ve never done it. The urge to yell out, “That man,” with my sparkly clean and sanitized finger pointing in his direction, “did not wash his hands! Him! Right there!” I’ve wanted management to kindly remove him from the establishment, asking him never to return. Like writing a bad check, I want to see a Polaroid of his face behind the counter for all to see. I’d like a few people to unfriend him on Facebook. Actually no; block him. Yes, block him.
A few weeks ago I was at the car wash, with one public unisex restroom. I really had to go, tried the door but the room was occupied. I waited impatiently, hoping someone wasn’t having a bad day; a poop attack as my friend Kym would call it. Fortunately, I heard the toilet flush but unfortunately the door swung open before the toilet could even finish its cycle. Another wild animal on the loose. I gave him all the room he needed as he exited, and I felt my personal space grow exponentially while he continued on with pee-pee hands kind of life. I walked to the front of the toilet only to see what looks like large yellow islands; like a map of Fiji painted in a shade of orangey yellow. I thought to myself, “He needs to drink more water, but he shouldn’t. That’d require him to continue his wild urination quest.” The worst part: I have to clean it up. This stranger’s piss. There could be a beautiful, perfect 10 of a woman waiting on the other side of the door thinking I was trying to do a pee helicopter during my private moment.
I haven’t spent a lot of time in the women’s restroom but I’m sure similar things go on in there too. Maybe not so much pee on the seats, but you get my drift. When I see that sign, “EMPLOYEES ARE REQUIRED, BY STATE LAW, TO WASH THEIR HANDS BEFORE RETURNING TO WORK,” or something similar, I think it’d be better written, “GO AHEAD, RETURN TO THE PUBLIC WITH URINE AND FECES ON YOUR HANDS. WE LIKE TO SPREAD PINK-EYE IN OUR ESTABLISHMENT. THANK YOU FOR HAVING SHIT THAT DOESN’T STINK. ASSHOLE.”
So, my resolution to this is very simple; call it courtesy flushing my troubles away if you will. It started last week while using the restroom and witnessing a guy on his mobile at the urinal, and pretending there were no sinks, soaps or water as he left, still yapping on the phone. I went back to my table, pointing him out to my friend, and said, “That man did not wash his hands! Him! Right there!” We both looked over, watching him ending his call, sit at a table, handing the device to a child for her amusement, and reaching over to hold the hand of the woman he appeared to be in love with. They had lunch together, and shared more that day than they’ll ever know.
But I will.