Here’s a thing that happened to me the other day that would not
upset a well adjusted person, probably.
My bladder was full of urine, so I decided I would get rid
of some of that urine by putting it into a urinal. As you do. There was a chap walking in front of me, also en route to the facilities. This happens. Sometimes we men
of manly stature and station have to loose wastes at the same time. The fellow
and I made eye contact and shared a polite nod and the pursed lips that I seem
to think communicates a polite “hello” but also says “Please don’t talk to me.
I have nothing to say to you.” So it wasn’t like he didn’t know I was there.
The bathroom was empty. Not another soul stirred in the
stalls, not a chap stood at one of four urinal outlets. So why, pray tell, did
this man and the 56 inches surrounding his waist choose the urinal two from the leftmost urinal?
This is important because the urinal this guy chose was the only urinal flanked on either side by porcelain pee pillars suited for
adults. The leftmost urinal, was, in fact, tiny. Intended for children. Or
hobbits. Or Michael J. Fox.
So the predicament this very inconsiderate man with high
cholesterol put me in was this: I either select one of the adult urinals
directly flanking the one he was using and be able to feel his flank steak shoulder brushing against my own, or I act like a man and distance myself from the
only other human in the restroom by one urinal length and use the midget
urinal.
I bent my knees, angled down, and did what I went there to
do.
Standing directly beside another man without a one urinal
buffer as you both urinate is wrong. I don’t know how it’s wrong, but it is.
There is no real consequence or law of peeing like you’re practicing the buddy the
system, but it’s still wrong. It’s wrong like Thanksgiving dinner flavored soda
is wrong. It’s wrong like Donald Trump’s hair is wrong. It’s wrong like sheets
with a thread count of 6 are wrong. There’s nothing inherently morally wrong
with it, but it’s still somehow Darwinistically off. And this walking donut
deposit forced me to do it, or squat like I was doing something you shouldn’t
do in urinals, because it’s mean to the janitor who has to deal with it.
You’d think the story stops there. You’d think that Porkchop
McButterbritches over there, one urinal away from me, had done his lavatory
damage and was satisfied making me look and feel stupid. But not old
Butterbritches, no. He decides to break the two cardinal urinal rules.
I can feel his gaze burning into the side of my head from my
Ivan Rodriguez position. I try to avoid it. But folks, I had lots of urine. And
apparently he did as well. Eventually, I just have to turn to look at him. So
now we’re looking at each other while we’re both holding our Nelson Mandelas.
“How’s the workday?” gargles the mayonnaise enthusiast.
C’mon. Really? We’re doing this? You ridiculously
inappropriate cellulite collector. I respond with a simple, curt reply, crafted
to fend off any further conversation. “Fine.”
But does it sway him? No, of course not. The guy who
probably had a bunker of cake for breakfast continues. “Man, I’m ready to go
home.”
Because God loves me, the flow ended as he spoke the word
“go,” so I shake off, zip up, and fling out another witty, timeless comeback.
“Yeah.”
And then I leave, that inimitable air of unsatisfied
tête-à-tête still floating behind me. And thus ends the example of how not to
treat your next one on one urinal experience.
-Claudius Templesmith
