A Little Quiet, Please
By H.G. Miller
So, maybe you don't want to hear about this, but it should be obvious by the
date that I haven't been able to think of anything else to write about, so here
it is:
Why do people feel obligated to talk to me in the restroom at work?
Don't get me wrong; I am quite fond of the men's restroom on the 22nd floor of
my office building. The handicapped stall is about three times the size of my
bathroom at home, and there's some magical bathroom fairy that cleans it every
night. There's always soap and plenty of paper towels, as opposed to my
bathroom at home, which sometimes has a roll of toilet paper with toilet paper
still on it, and might have a dry towel on the rack if whoever built my complex
in the early 1800s had thought of putting something so clever as a vent in the
place.
So, sometimes it's nice to have a clean bathroom with echoing tile walls and a
handicap-accessible door that opens itself.
But, I am rarely in the mood to carry on conversations with others while I go
about my business, and I can't understand why people think they are allowed to
be friendly while my willy is in my hands.
I understand the courtesy nod. That's cool. It's a guy thing worldwide, I'm
sure. If you accidentally make eye contact in the restroom, of course you
acknowledge the other guy, but that's IT!
None of this, Hey, how's that new business pitch going? I hear the client's
are real detail freaks.
Look, the only detail I'm interested in at the moment is counting the cracks in
the ceramic basin I'm taking a leak in, okay, buddy? Maybe you're one of those
talented people who can just whiz at will and has nary a care in the world when
your bladder sends some neurons to your brain telling it it's time to let the
floodgates open.
Me, I'm not so lucky.
I need quiet when I pee. I can't be using my brain to tell you about how pissed
I am that some flowchart has to be redone with two-digit decimals on all
percentages because some blowhard in the New York office was bored and wanted
to boss somebody around at the same time I'm trying to pretend that blowhard's
face is painted onto the pink urinal cake at the bottom of the stall.
Comprende?
There, I'm glad to have gotten that off my chest. Now, can I have a moment
please?
Ahh