In Search of Things Past

No one I know particularly enjoys using public restrooms. Everything about it is distasteful: waiting for your turn, for example, broadcasts to the world that you have to use the toilet. Sometimes you're just waiting to spot-clean the coffee stain from your shirt, but it doesn't matter. People still look at you knowingly. Add to this unpleasantness the adjunct activity of exiting the restroom and meeting - or, in my case, avoiding - the gaze of the person next in line. This is why I tend to limit my visits to these facilities to two minutes or less. If the patron outside is already feeling self-conscious or annoyed, my taking forever will only increase her irritation and make the inevitable walk-by awkward. I like to think that I am a pretty considerate person in this respect. My feeling is that, if you have to attend to something that requires more than five minutes in a public lavatory, you're better off just going home, and I am diligent in applying this standard to myself. But today I was reminded that many people are quite unbothered by the bathroom visit, to the extent that they lounge around inside as if they were preparing a decadent Saturday night bubble bath. I waited so long today that I expected the woman to emerge in a negligee holding a pair of champagne flutes. When she finally did reappear, I couldn't help but notice that she was not wearing a negligee and didn't look refreshed; instead, she scurried past me and shinnied up against the wall, her eyes averted and her face a mask of terror and shame. I stepped into the restroom and discovered the reason for her furtive escape. The air was heavy with stench, and I think the temperature in the tiny room was ten degrees hotter than outside in the hallway. I tend to avoid inhalation in every public restroom, but the miasma was so pernicious that even the cessation of breathing couldn't mask it. My instinct was to flee, but I'd drunk too much coffee, and so resigned myself to a minute of torture. I became consumed with the desire to run out into the busy coffee shop to find that woman, put my finger in her face and, in my best Marat impression, shout, "J'accuse!" Really, I wanted to go right up and ask her what the matter was with her, who did she think she was, and explain the proper etiquette. Once I was out of the bathroom, I avoided scanning the room so that I could look pointedly in her direction, which was all I'd be able to muster. And anyway, I forgot about the whole thing pretty quickly. But still. I mean, come on.