There is really nothing worse for a girl living in the suburbs than openly cleaning public toilets. I say “for a girl living in the suburbs” because I know there are much MUCH worse things in the world, in general, so I am putting it into perspective/context for you.
So, I thought there was nothing worse than the previously mentioned scenario until that fateful day one month ago. It was early evening when I was rubber-gloved and scrubbing fecal matter from the mens’ toilet seat. I try not to stare at the stray hairs that linger, but it is inevitable and I cringe. As I attempt to speed through this lovely chore, I am unexpectedly and horrifyingly accosted.
The J-Man has cornered me in the mens’ room. There I am, mid-scrub, and the guy starts talking to me about fiscal responsibility and government jobs. Good grief.
“How will I escape this?” I thought. There is only one way in and one way out. I gradually move towards the door, in hopes that he’ll catch my drift, but he doesn’t budge. I nod and give the occasional “mmhmm” response, but it truly becomes unbearable.
Meanwhile, my coworkers are in stitches over the situation. Their snickers and laughter can be heard in the front and I feel like an older sister who is the vicitim of a practical joke. No such luck. This is my life.
I move onto the ladies’ room which for some reason bothers me less, maybe because I go in there on my own and I am one of them. The J-Man follows me, continuing his monologue. As I wipe the mirror clean, I look at myself in the reflection and think, “What I would give for a large sock with horse manure in it…” (Annie Hall, anyone?)
That’s another thing. My father and I have this thing called “In My Movie” which is pretty self-explanatory. We say what would we would do if our lives were a movie rather than real life. Like in American Beauty when Lester zones out and envisions all of this stuff but then snaps back to reality and he’s sitting in a high school gym. That is what it’s like.
So, in my movie, I would have screamed at the top of my lungs, the acoustics of the bathroom hallway reverberating, potentially shattering the mirrors. until the J-Man got the point that not only did I not want to hear his monologue, but that I was mortified to be talked to while cleaning the mens’ room. It is a task that I like to think I am invisible while doing. Sadly, I snapped back to reality, finished scrubbing the toilets, and went back to work.
The End.
Bitter Barista 