The bathroom is a sacred space. Those flimsy divider walls might as well be the Great Wall of China for all the weight that they carry. You do not invade someone’s space when they’re in there, physically or emotionally. You wait your turn to get in, sit down, and unless you’re one of those weird chatty “tell me about your day over the sound of the splashing” people, you pretend you can’t hear anyone, and that no one can hear you. This is etiquette. This is what separates woman from beast.
I’m contemplating these intricacies of behavior post-Avatar, while dealing with the consequences of upgrading to the large Diet Coke for just 25 cents more.
There’s barely any graffiti in my stall. That always slightly disappoints me; I enjoy some philosophy scribbled along the walls, or maybe a nice quote, some good advice, perhaps sometimes a picture. Apparently most people who pay ten dollars to see a movie don’t decide to take out their overpriced-popcorn-frustrations on the bathroom stalls. Or, movie theater employees are way more diligent about their cleaning rounds than minimum wage workers should be.
So I’m staring at the floor. Where else would I stare?
Near the door, there’s a green Skittle. I don’t know how Skittles end up on the bathroom floor. Who eats candy while they pee?
A broom darts out from under the door.
What the hell? WHO WOULD BE SWEEPING MY BATHROOM STALL WHILE I’M STILL IN IT? Yes, I’m taking ownership of a public toilet. Dammit, it’s mine until I’m done with it.
The broom attacks again, flitting in and out of the stall like a snake’s tongue. It’s seen better days: The bristles could curve around a corner, and the part of the handle that I can see looks like it had been used as a chew toy by some teething puppy.
The Skittle. It’s trying to sweep up that goddamn Skittle. The broom clearly has a mind of its own. No decent human being would be sweeping inside my bathroom stall at this particular moment — that would completely violate the sanctity of my private space. It is completely violating the sanctity of my private space.
I’m a nervous pee-er. If I know that I’m going to need to go within 30 feet of a breathing creature, I plan accordingly. You know: small apartments, hotel stays, trips to Six Flags, long study sessions at Starbucks. When I’m prepared, I bring my iPod. Turn up the screamo, and you can’t tell who’s around you. And if you can’t hear them, they can’t hear you, right? Impromptu peeing never goes well for me. Someone always insists on being within earshot.
I close my eyes, wishing I could close my ears.
I’m too shocked to think. If I could, my thoughts probably would have gone something like this: INVASION ALERT INVASION ALERT! DEFEND THE FORTRESS!
But instead I just sit there in awe, staring at it. Do you know how hard it is to sweep up something round? The Skittle scuttles across the stall, eluding its hunter. The broom gives a valiant chase, sweeping side to side. Left, right, left. It pounces, drags its prey into the cave of sweeper-pan for annihilation. Little Green One (it’s seen me with my pants down, it deserves a nickname) gets caught on the lip of the tray and bounces back out. It’s a clever one, that’s for sure. Darwin would be rooting for this guy.
But no one Skittle, no matter how wily, can match an overly determined wearer of black-Converse high tops and a trusty broom. There’s one final aggressive swipe, and the Skittle flies into the dustpan. Almost as quickly it appeared, the broom gets yanked out of my view.
When it’s over, I’m almost sad. I feel like my favorite character in a book just died.
And then I remember to start breathing again.
I wonder if anyone else noticed the broom-Skittle death match going down. When I slide out of the stall, no one looks at me. My heartbeat is still pounding in my ears, but no one gives me a second glance. They all go about their business, washing their hands, trying not to lose their children, checking their smudged makeup, all in their own little bathroom bubble. No one speaks. If accidental eye contact occurs, we smile apologetically with lips pressed together and glance away, quickly.
I wonder if they’re all nervous pee-ers too.