Truesday: Acceptance And The Dark

Then we’d go on to get kicked out of somewhere for reasons none of us would ever be able to properly piece together. All we’d remember is how angry strangers tended to be toward us.

Such was (is) life sometimes.

Beyond the Hand Grenades, the Isle was known for having atrocious lavatorial facilities.

Yeah “lavatorial” is not a word. Yet.

Their bathrooms were notorious for being covered in such putrid filth that it was rarely possible to discern from what orifice/species the foulness came. The water might have worked (for the toilet and sink), but no one was brave enough to touch anything beyond what they brought in with them. So it just stacked up and around, layered up and such, and obviously got too nasty for the illegally labored help to see the positive risk-reward benefit in scrubbing it all out.

But in all honesty and fairness, most of the bars on 6th at the time were like that. It was an industry norm back then.

They later pulled the plug on Tropical Isle and replaced it with several forgettable establishments. But one thing all those establishments were known for, somewhat ironically, was their restrooms. I’d hear “dude, have you been to [whatever] bar? Where Tropical Isle used to be? Fucking awesome shitters, man.” Or “if you get caught out there and have to lay pavement, cut it at that new place that took over the Isle. Cleaner than your mom’s.”

I would say that I don’t know why people feel it necessary to tell me about the quality of restrooms in new bars, but I’d be lying.

Most of my friends know that I’ll send one to the president from just about any location. I’m no Shit Breaker. I’ll handle whatever foul business befalls me at the nearest convenience. I won’t save it unless there are extenuating circumstances.

My reasoning is simple: if I’m even pondering a deuce-departure in public, then I’m definitely in a compromised situation (explosive and thunderous). So, considering the damage I’m likely to inflict, I rarely care about the condition of the facilities beforehand. I only require that they be operational (adding to piles is not my thing), that there’s some privacy involved (remember when The Ritz had NO stall doors in the men’s room? Pissing next to some dude who is wiping off third-worldly and dysenterious material for five minutes is an unparalleled venture that redefines awkward), and that the capacity is up to my spec (I prefer to not be that guy who breaks the toilet, thus ruining the lives of everyone who comes in contact with my creation, for the rest of the night).

So I kept hearing about the fabled splendor of those bathrooms, even after it was bought be Emo’s. Their gleaming and powerfully-flushing glory. But I never managed to make it in there. Not until last week. So I wanted to make the wait worth it.

I was bragging to my friends about how I was saving this special delivery for Emo’s Lounge. I wanted to be able to experience the place. Fully. So I made sure to coffee-up, prepped and ready to Hiroshima one of those rumored toilet wonders.

When we got there, we parted ways. My friends hit the bar, and I headed toward the back to TC of some particularly restless B.

The set up is a tad odd: one long hallway which you enter the middle of. Women to the right, fellows to the left. Three or four doors down each wing of the hall, behind each of which is a toilet and a sink. The doors have lock-looking mechanisms on them so you have to knock to see if anyone’s in there. I went down the line, knocking, and noted that underneath the door is a foot-tall gap through which one might crawl into a locked stall. Probably great for those times when someone gets locked out of a stall. Or if there’s a fire. I really don’t know the true purpose.

I continued down the hallway, tapping on doors and receiving irritated requests for me to “fuck off” until someone was “done shitting in this bitch”. I was not alone in my quest. This was both a good, and bad omen.

All were full except for one. It was dark. Like, haunted house dark. But the situation was growing urgent and I really felt the need to act before panic set in. Once inside, I shut the door and pushed the little lock button. It was really, really dark in there. Broom-closet dark. The only light that came in was from that gap under the door. It wasn’t enough for me to be able to properly perform my task as required. Defeated, I stood in that dark little cell for a few seconds, debating whether I could hold out. I deemed myself capable, bucked-up, and exited back out to the bar.

I had to temporarily abort my mission until one of the lit toilet cells opened up.

Once I was back at the bar, I was asked how my expedition went. Whether or not it had lived up to my expectations, paper quality, room temperature and such.

“I have to wait. The only open bathroom was dark. Light’s out or something.”

“So you didn’t do it? You need spotlights or something? Why not just do it anyway?”

“Why not? Because, what if a fucking live baby comes out of there, or a gold antique pocket watch? I might have to raise that thing. Teach the kid to tell time or whatever.”

“…”

“You can’t shit in the dark, man.”

Aside: I phrased it like it was a cliché. Like, “you can’t cry over spilt milk” or some shit. And that’s exactly how my friends took it. And for the rest of the week, whenever anything inconvenient would happen, such as our lunch taking goddamn FOREVER to get to our table at Curra’s on Saturday morning, we’d apologize it away.

“You can’t shit in the dark, man. You just can’t.” Shrug.

Later that Emo’s Lounge evening, when a stall finally opened up, I went in for the kill. This one had working lighting. I entered, locked the door and prepped myself for some serious creation. Sculptureous art was the plan.

And part of that art is speed. Especially since after getting situated, I realized that I was not entirely confident in whether that door actually locked. In my haste to get the party started, I neglected to properly survey that handle’s mechanical soundness. So there I sat, suspiciously eyeing the door, not really enjoying what was supposed to be a momentous Emo’s Lounge Total Toilet Experience.

With the whole door-paranoia thing looming over me like a hernia, it wasn’t the most transcendental fifteen seconds of my life to date. But the few moments afterward were the type that make clichés worth living.

During the post drop, whilst I toweled down, I noticed that the entire wall opposite the toilet was a mirror. And as I stood there, making sure my buff was buffed, I noted how unimpressive a person looks amidst this process. Contorted, discomforted facial expression, clothing amuck. Then I wondered whether there might be a camera behind that mirror, and how fucked up it would be for someone to actually film that kind of thing. Then I remembered that people actually DO film that kind of thing. Not that anyone of the Emo’s ilk would bother, but I quickly felt bad for any poor, unsuspecting person who might stumble upon that variety of footage out on the intertubes. Oh, the humanity of it all. I pondered. I considered. I passed some post-operation fumes.

Then I busted out that stall door and re-entered the plowed-finding population. What can you do, right? Can’t shit in the dark, man. You just can’t.