penfield | Skip to my loo

"See, there's three kinds of people: dicks, pussies, and assholes. Pussies think everyone can get along, and dicks just want to fuck all the time without thinking it through. But then you got your assholes, Chuck. And all the assholes want is to shit all over everything. So, pussies may get mad at dicks once in a while, because pussies get fucked by dicks. But dicks also fuck assholes, Chuck. And if they didn't fuck the assholes, you know what you'd get? You'd get your dick and your pussy all covered in shit."
- "Guy in Bar" from Team America: World Police

I like having my own office at work. It sure beats the days when I had a desk -- not even a cubicle, just a desk -- planted in the lobby of our offices. In those days, my only sanctuary was a leisurely trip to the men's room, and even then, one could not always be assured of privacy.

This restroom -- which bears a grammatically confounding placard reading "MENS," as if it were labeled by an eastern European immigrant -- really is a somewhat disturbing place. There is nothing overtly filthy about it like hand-carved grafitti or an open stench or anything, it simply has the disconcerting air of what may have once been a crime scene.

The walls and small floor tiles are a dusty baby blue, with a black marble countertop encasing three porcelain washbasins. Each sink has its own pump-style soap spigot, and each pump-style soap spigot dispenses different soap: the leftmost provides a milky-white soap that I suspect includes a light moisturizer, the center offers a dull orange soap with a strong antibacterial smell, and the right dispenses a shiny silver substance that may in fact be mercury. I generally choose the sink in the center, although I am sometimes persuaded otherwise if there is a pool of water or other detritus surrounding that particular sink. Along the far right edge is a paper towel dispenser that is always either empty or so crammed full of paper that you can't grab a single sheet without it tearing in half. Another, more reasonable paper towel dispenser is located on the wall opposite the mirror, although that apparatus includes the restroom's trash bin which is sometimes stacked precariously close to the next sheet that dangles from the dispenser above.

There are two commodes, set off by dividers made of an indeterminate metal compound and painted a drab gray, with one stall being twice as roomy to accomodate the wheelchair-bound. This handicapped-use commode is for some reason positioned in such a way that the seat is higher than the standard commode next door, like a throne. I don't know if there is a practical purpose for this -- perhaps it is designed to reach the same altitude as your average wheelchair -- but whenever I am forced to use it, my lower legs tend to dangle awkwardly off the edge like a ventriloquist dummy's. The toilet paper is a mass-purchased slightly abrasive double-ply, not luxurient by any means but still above the POW-quality stuff my parents inexplicably buy (perhaps because it can also be used as mosquito netting).

Against the third wall are two regular-issue urinals of the same size but set in the wall at different heights, as if for a father and son. There is maybe a foot and a half worth of wall space between them, separated by a metal divider that stretches from mid-calf to mid-chest. On each side of the metal divider is rather distasteful patch of rust, no doubt the result of the region's hostile precipitation patterns. This itself may be the result of oversized pink urinal cakes situated in the dead center of each target, creating the potential for hydrodynamic riccochet and hazardous levels of splashback, particularly when using the more steeply situated "junior" urinal -- though the "senior" urinal is no picnic either, since it is more popular and is usually still soiled from the previous user (again, as a result of the oversized urinal cake essentially restricting proper plumb-flow). Perhaps most revoltingly, there is the distinct dark smudge of a person's hand located at the one-o'-clock position in relation to the left urinal, obviously a remnant of a regular patron who utilizes the "lean-in" technique, which I personally find repulsive for reasons too nauseating to enumerate here.

All the while, the pale fluorescent light bounces off the walls in such an antiseptic way as to give it the feel of an abandoned hospital room. Strangely, the lighting is actually sort of flattering to me personally; I often look in the mirror and find that I look my best. But in my single days I never could figure out an appealing way to somehow get a date in there with me.

Within the next month, my office will be moving to a different building across town, presumably with a nicer bathroom. I won't miss the old water closet or anything, although I might try and steal the lights for my new office.