The Loo

Before you judge me for writing another "Office Place Bathroom" story, just think of all the non-office place bathroom stories I've written. Focus on those (but still read this).

9:51am--I sit down for my morning massage. That's what I call my morning visit to the john. Not really sure what massage has to do with it, though--maybe it comes from the motion my innards employ to expel the gray matter. That's right--gray.

I am in the second stall, the handicap stall, because the first stall is occupied. I saw on an Oprah episode that, on average, the first stall is the least used because everyone thinks it's the most frequently used since it's the closest to the bathroom door, so they all move on to the next stalls. Makes sense. So I always shoot for the first stall. If it's taken, however, the handicap stall isn't a bad consolation. It's so spacious. If I end up in the handicap stall, I pretend that I'm in a bathroom in Dubai and that there are beautiful naked dolphins outside waiting to wash my hands by spewing clean, clear water out of their mouths (not out of their blow holes like you probably expected) once I come out.

As I sit there, I see a man (my worries that I might have accidentally entered the wrong bathroom are a put to rest) 's feet walk to the sink that is directly in front of my stall. At the same time, the latch on my stall's door somehow comes undone and the door slowly and smoothly swings wide open, stopping at the end of the arc. Being in the spacious handicap stall, the door is much too far away for me to lunge at. The stranger turns and looks at me. We make eye contact, him on his feet and I on my stool.

Rather than quickly turn away in shame, something amazing happens. No words are spoken, but we have a conversation with our eyes, man to man. He understands the potential humiliation I might be suffering as physics cruelly exposes my highthighs to all outside of my mis-assumed sanctuary, and I in turn comprehend deeply his need to be able to walk to the sink without being forced by the terrible humor of the universe to watch another man shart. The mutual understanding is immediately and profoundly felt, and we are both calmed. My new friend gives me a wise nod, then closes the door for me. As it connects, I lean forward and close the latch, this time making sure it goes all the way in, a little worried that I might drop a loose doodgie on my ankled pants. But I return with honor and without droppage to my porcelain chair, grateful for the power of the unspoken word, and for the innate desire of men to bond in the bathroom.