To The Guy Sitting In The Stall Next To Me
I don’t know about the rest of you, but for me "dropping the kids off at the pool" is something that really breaks up my day, and I take pleasure in the solitude of the stall as it provides a short respite from the frantic office I work in. Doing my business is something, even, that I look forward to. To prepare I usually look for a couple of good articles on CNN.com or ESPN.com and print them out for good reading material, or in the case of an emergency, for good wiping material. I try to be mindful about everything I do, and this is no different. I also carry a small container of hand sanitizer with me to do my business. Cleanliness is next to Godliness, after all.
So, yesterday I had gone through my rituals leading up to the big moment. News stories and sanitizer bottle in hand, the knowledge of coming satisfaction in my mind, I walk from my office the exact twenty-one paces required to reach the loo.
The bathrooms at my work are very small. Some of them don’t even have two stalls, which is wierd for a big office building, but I digress, the restroom I use has two stalls, side by side.
I open the stall door directly opposite the entranceway and balance my papers on the toilet paper holder thingy. The next thing I do is check the bowl for pee stains. I hate to use a bowl that has my own urine stained on it, the result of poor aim or drunkeness or whatever, so I remove and wad up some toilet paper from the toilet paper holder thingy, squirt some hand sanitizer in it, and wipe the rim and seat of the bowl down, flushing down the resulting refuse. I then remove one of those sani-covers from the container on the wall above my throne, and carefully tear the middle tongue part away from the main piece. I cautiously lay the seat cover across the seat, making sure to rest it on any part that my butt may come into contact with. Content for the moment, I unzip, drop trow and make myself comfortable.
Ahhhhhh… cool plastic covered by a thin layer of clean, crisp paper. I start to read my articles. The restroom door opens. In walks a man. I can’t see the man from inside my stall, but I can hear him. He is heavy. He grunts and breathes when he moves. He opens the door to the stall next to me. ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥. Listen, if you walk into a bathroom and there are two stalls and one of them is in use, turn around and walk back out again and come back ten minutes later. Unless you are having a major problem that must be handled right away, there is no reason for you to disrupt someone else’s moment of zen. Besides, I don’t understand why anyone would want to be within three feet of another human being, side by side, while taking a ♥♥♥♥.
The man takes out a sani-cover and covers his seat. He grunts. He unzips. He grunts and breathes. He sits down. I hear the paper tear under his weight. He farts. Just ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ great. I consider saying, ‘hey man, what the ♥♥♥♥? You couldn’t have waited? You have some meeting you’re here for and you just couldn’t wait to take a ♥♥♥♥?" Whatever. I sit, quietly. I wait. I can’t start till he finishes, and leaves.
He pees sitting down. Even though sometimes I do this too, I think it’s gay because someone told me it is. I’m easily impressionable. I don’t want to read my articles because that would take away from the experience. I wait. I hear him moving around. His breathing is labored. There’s a plopping sound from his bowl. It makes me happy because it means soon he’ll be finished. Then I hear something I absolutely don’t want to hear. I hear his fat, stubby fingers pressing down on the keys of his phone, or blackberry. He is texting someone. ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥. He breathes heavily, in and out. It’s been five minutes. He is texting.
I’ve been waiting for five minutes, looking at the stall walls, staring at the floor, reading the same stall graffiti over and over and over again. Wondering who wrote the words "penis ♥♥♥♥♥♥" on the common wall that I share with this tubby bastard to my right, and if they knew I would be here reading it, appreciating it in this moment, thinking it appropriate. He continues texting. He is writing a ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ novel. MOTHER ♥♥♥♥♥♥ WON’T STOP TEXTING. It’s been ten minutes.
I give up. I ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ give up. I stand up with a heavy, pissed off sigh. Pull up my trousers, gather the articles that I have by now read and flush the sani-cover down the toilet. What a waste. I’m pissed. I leave the stall, papers in hand. I try to spy through the crack between his stall door and wall, try to get a glimpse of this troll who has ruined the one serene moment I get per working day. I can see he’s got a horseshoe shaped patch of dark hair surrounding his bald cap. I imagine he looks like a used copier and printer toner cartridge salesman, like Jon Polito in "The Man Who Wasn’t There". His crumpled slack pants and dull brown leather shoes show he sports a Mervyn’s wardrobe. ♥♥♥♥ him. I hate him.
I leave. I go upstairs to the bathroom directly above the one I was just in. I sit in the stall directly above his, and pretend I’m crapping on his head. I leave. I walk back downstairs. As I reach the bathroom the door opens and he walks out. He nearly walks into me. "Excuse me," he says.
"You have something on your head," I respond. ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥…
