Green Latrine

“It's painted drab, a rustic green. That's why its called … the Green Latrine”*

The Beatles imply that “she came in through the bathroom window”. Liars. Why would any woman risk falling head first into the unclean abyss when she would only need the protection of footwear to enter through the door? Women like to avoid potential life-threatening head injuries from ceramics, and disgusting toxic splatter whenever possible.

I, for one, hate public bathrooms. There, I said it. I do. They generally smell of decaying human products, they put you at great risk for being short-sheeted, and worst of all, as the name implies, they are PUBLIC. Doors fail to latch, or have no locking mechanisms at all, causing one to employ the stretch-and-hold-as-you-pee approach. Such body bending maneuvers during tender moments can’t be colon-healthy.

My worst nightmares come in the shape of public bathrooms full of small, ill-behaved children with a curious streak. Once, while minding my “business” at a local Pizza Hut restaurant bathroom, I heard the pitter-patter of tiny feet arrive in the bathroom. The entourage, consisting of 2 small boys and the mother entered the stall adjacent to mine. I heard the mother say in a stern voice, “Porter, stand up. People don’t like you to look at them when they’re going potty.” As cued, little Porter ducked under the wall, entered my stall, stood up and said,

“Whatcha doin’?”

I screamed, as only a girl can do. I restrained the impulse to kick at the urchin lest I draw a felony assault charge while squatting. It would no doubt draw curious onlookers to the scene, and I was feeling quite vunerable. I put on my best camp counselor voice and said, “This is my stall; you need to go next door.”

“Why?”

I resisted the urge to reply, “BECAUSE IF YOU DON’T, I SHALL RIP OFF YOUR ARM THAT IS CURRENTLY UNTIEING MY SHOELACES AND BEAT YOU WITH THE BLOODY STUMP.” But I didn’t have to. Intrigued by his brother’s conversation, Urchin 2 apparently swerved at an inappropriate moment with regard to bodily functions, causing undue peril in his stall. There was a silence, and then I heard,

“Mama, I made the wall ugly.”

I had never been happier to be childless, unless you count the day when my nephews asked me,

“Do we have to wear underwear today?”

Porter disappeared under the wall, and I hear, “Preston look at what you’re doing. We’re going to have the clean the wall up now. LOOK AT WHAT YOU’RE DOING! We’re going to have to find someone to give us a sponge.” Darn. This was my not my day to equip my bat belt with sponges. In fact, I wondered how many people usually carried spare sponges with them on a daily basis. Forgetting the sponge enigma I hurried as best I could to escape the impending flood. As I exited, both Porter and Preston were engaged in plying paper towels to the floor, to each other, and into the toilet. Eeeuuuuwww. They were dipping their paper towels in the toilet, and then “cleaning” the walls with them, as their mother searched frantically in her purse for wipes. Her purse was clearly much smaller than would necessary to accommodate all the wipes she needed. I thought how thankful I was that I was not currently employed in the janitorial industry, and I stepped away from the sink to throw away my paper towel, when one of the little urchins asked

“Do we have to wash our hands?”

For the love of all that is holy, I hope they did, but I didn’t stay to find out. I have a weak constitution. I’ve also renewed my vow not to have children. It also fosters my hatred of public bathrooms, and my quest to point them out.

One of the most poorly designed public bathrooms in the Midwest is the women’s facility in the building where I work. (Having only entered a men’s room once at the Astro Dome in Houston, I have little experience or basis for comparison.) There is an entrance door, which leads to a small antechamber and another door that leads into the stalls. The problem is that a) the antechamber is approximately the dimension of a human body and b) both door swing in to the center. In addition to the total inability of anyone with a physical disability to use this facility, this creates a potentually perilous situation if you happen to be in the antechamber when people are coming a) out of the bathroom or b) into the bathroom. If you would like a demonstration of how a mammogram feels, stand in the antechamber while both doors are being opened. If you are on crutches, or have mobility problems, avoid liquids the day before your visit.

The worst part may have to be the Lilliputian dimensions of the room, which add up to nearly three square feet. Should you get through the gauntlet of the doors, you’ll find yourself in a room somewhat smaller than a portable toilet, and not nearly the charm. This room contains 3 stalls, 2 sinks, a baby changing station (no doubt so that you can change your baby into something more practical), and a prehistoric tampon/pad machine. It doesn’t take coins; you insert wampum beads to get out a product. You also need to be familiar with feminine hygiene products of the 1940’s, and have an appreciation for index cards, which are a suitable alternative for the chafe-inducing excuse for toilet paper. It could be worse, you could be at the fair.

Bathrooms far worse than the Ohio facilities may be found at the Indiana State Fairgrounds. (Specifically the ones near the Pioneer Barn…oh the irony.) They were designed and constructed in pre-world war II Indiana, no doubt by blind pygmies without any regard for person hygiene or comfort. Perhaps it’s the proximity to the animal barns, but the first thing to hit you is the welcoming “Oh-My-God-What-IS-That-Smell?” Should you be able to soldier through the olfactory sensations, you walk through aisle after aisle of kelly green doors, trying to choose wisely. It doesn’t matter. There are no Monty Hall prizes behind THESE doors. Instead you have short, plywood doors with no latches, and rather obscure spring mechanisms that cause the door to snap back with all the grace and power of rusty bear traps. Once you make your way into the cubicle, judging your clearance carefully into the stall lest you be whapped in the haunches with spring-loaded, splinter-bearing plywood, and you begin your descent toward the sticky primal ooze that is the floor. You then notice that the floor seems to be the origin of the nostril-burning stench that welcomed you.

As you continue to ponder the genetic and/or chemical makeup of the ooze you begin to stare at your surroundings and have a conversation with yourself. The clarity comes quite quickly. “Self, I these doors are mighty short. I wonder if people can see…Oh look, there’s a woman I know from work…OH MY GOD!” There are really few things more disturbing in life than making eye contact with people you know while you’re relieving yourself. Actually, making eye contact with ANYONE during this time is a little unnerving.

Only more irritating might be the lacerations you receive on your right hand as you try to tear off the sheets of “toilet paper” from the torture device placed at an inconceivably bad angle for humans who don’t have prehensile tails or Stretch Armstrong-like features. Ripping the paper with any sort of force creates momentum that propels your hand into razor-sharp teeth, puzzling in that the one-ply sheets need only the grasp of the human hand to separate from each other. It takes 10-15 attempts to prepare enough “paper” to adequately use. The blood-soaked, paper-towel covered right hand is a Red Badge of Courage for anyone brave (desperate) enough to visit.

You leave the facility with watering eyes, burning nostrils, sticky shoes and a mangled right hand. It could only be worse if someone walked in on you while you’re standing in a porta-potty, dressed in 18th century clothing, inserting a tampon. Not that I would know. But, I know that the Beatles were wrong. She SO wouldn’t have come in the bathroom window.





* camp song