I’d like to start by saying that under normal circumstances I would not publish what follows under my own name. Wouldn’t do it! But, I’ve been awarded an honorable mention for this piece by Adam Mastroianni of Experimental History, and that’s a lot like getting a single point on the board. On the balance between a single fake internet point and my own shame and self-respect, well. You’re reading this, aren’t you? Answers that nicely.
They didn’t tell me it was automatic. We’re at our most vulnerable when we’re poopin’. Animals watch each others’ backs during the act. Or, at least they did that in an episode of The Expanse, and I’m pretty sure I’ve seen my dogs standing guard for each other (and outside my own closed bathroom door).
I was 5 years old, starting kindergarten, and using the toilet in the bathroom attached to our classroom. I finished my business, reached for the toilet paper and FA-WHOOM, a tsunami exploded beneath my exposed bottom. A fear was planted that day, one that has blossomed and sprouted since. I don’t truck with automatic toilets.
That’s not to say I never have. But I avoid it unless it’s an emergency. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve used one in the last ten years. The number in the last twenty isn’t much higher. But I’m not here to talk about the fear, that’s for my therapist. The fear is just the context you need for what I’m really here to talk about:
The religion toilet
Last month I went to my first film festival, in Dubuque, IA. Travelling isn’t always easy (see above: re automatic toilets). Airports love those auto flushers. But I made it to Chicago just fine, rented a car, and rode three hours to Dubuque with some friends. I arrived, full of colon, one hour before our first film.
I ran to the hotel my friend said served as HQ and rattled off two questions: is this where I buy tickets, and do you have a bathroom I can use?
No, they moved it this year. And yes, it’s just up the stairs.
And so I waddled, nudged open the door, and saw the dreaded black sensor. Nope. I retreated downstairs, thanked the attendants, and reported to my friend. The real HQ was just down the street, at a Holiday Inn. I repeated my questions there, and wandered to the toilets, explaining to my friend a simple lie: the toilet had been occupied. Holiday Inn, don’t disappoint… NO! Another automatic. I gauged my colon, debated girding my loins… but desisted. I said a little prayer. I will if I must, I promised.
I left the bathroom, bought my tickets, and saw that we had just over 40 minutes until the show started. My friend, who is not religious, turned to me: hey, I’ve got a pal who works in this town. She works at a church nearby. Do you mind if we stop by and say hello for a bit?
I did not. As we pulled up, I told my friend lie #2 (heh): the second toilet was filthy, and couldn’t be used. We walked into the church, found the friend, made an introduction, and I power-walked to that toilet the very second it wasn’t rude to do so. And hallelujah, it was a manual flush.