Frank

Reading some of the crude graffiti scrawled on the door and side partitions of the restroom in the Watson Library, makes you wonder whether the anarchists are political science majors, the uncomplimentary representations of male and female sexual organs, a wayward biology student and the reasoned verse fashioned by a follower of Aristotle.

But then again, sitting there for a while does make you think about all manner of things. I wondered, for instance, whether there was any truth to a story that came to mind about a waitress who entered a competition to win a Toyota by selling the most beer in a month. When she won, she was led blindfolded to the parking lot and presented with her prize – a new toy Yoda, the Star Wars character with the strange syntax. What would he have made of the confusion? Gullible beings are we, the force is dark to those who see not. Kate Winslet, I believe, does her best thinking in the toilet.

A recurring preoccupation is the design of the cubicles. I haven't been able to figure out why the base needs to be about six inches off the floor. Was there not enough material to go all the way down? Is it a safety measure, to perhaps yank someone by the ankles and rescue them from their distress? I've asked some fellow students about it and they allude to it being a security feature, though I'm not entirely convinced how six inches of space and a fairly large gap between the door and the frame is meant to help rather than intrude on my propriety.

Why should I cringe every time someone enters the restroom? There I am with my
trousers and underwear resting over my shoes for all and sundry to see. It just seems so intrusive on your personal space. Oh, and if someone steps a little closer to the door, why they can just make out that it's that foreign student from the Stauffer-Flint building.

"Are those John Deere tractors there or Granny Smith apples on your Jockeys?"

"No, it's Fruit of the Loom and they're neon teddy bears. Should've leaned forward a bit more, with your eye to the door and you'd have seen clearer. But a good try. Come around tomorrow at 2pm after I've had lunch and have another go."

Standing side by side at the urinals is fine, but surely you ought not to see the rows of bunched Bermudas and jeans, no matter how the cute the neon teddy bears. No wonder then that disasters of this sort arise.

I'd left my backpack and laptop to respond to an urgent call. It wasn't my subject advisor, but a more desperate act of nature. I dashed off to the restroom and relieved to find a vacant cubicle, I settled down. I'd read the graffiti and then searching for more news, reached down and grabbed some of the discarded newspapers strewn all over the floor. Half of the news section was in the adjoining cubicle, which was occupied. I struggled with my left foot to scoop the pages over to my side. John Deere, I thought, does it much better with rubble. As my foot struggled to reach further, I brushed against the leg of the person in the adjoining booth. I'm immediately rooted with shock and unable to speak. Like the time when I was a kid, and half-drowning in a public swimming pool when my head kept bobbing to the surface, I couldn't utter a word. I try to mumble an apology, but instead, let my fingers do the talking. I signal under the divider - apology and newspaper retrieval all tied together in my gestures. I hear what I think sounds like a profanity, but it's drowned out by the flush of the pan. I pull back, abandoning my attempt to get the paper. A short while later, campus protection bangs on my door (yes, it's taken that long to finish. Must have been the curry from that place downtown Mass.) If it had been like a Hollywood movie, maybe a cop would have shouted:

"You there! Come out with your hands up!"

If I got up and tried to march out, I would certainly have tripped over, and although the next thing they do in the movies is to tell you to "spread ‘em," before the search commences, the idea of lying spread-eagled on the floor like that … not the most pleasant sight.

I ask for time to clean myself and when I'm done I hear the charge is one of soliciting sex. I wish to be someone powerful, like a senator so this whole stinking mess I got myself into can be flushed away. Quietly. If that's at all possible. I think of calling a lawyer, but the good ones don't come pro bono. Whoever it is, I aim to tell my lawyer that the cops are trying to stick me with some sh*t that I know nothing of.

The restroom door bangs, and I remember my laptop on the desk. Before I leave, I think about adding my dream account next to the vacant space on wall to my side. Then again, someone might enter after me and think; Aristotle, political science major, biology junior and pausing to read the latest etching muse; anally retentive (is there are course on that?)