Scene #1:
The way the office men’s room is set up, you walk down a short corridor where, off to the right are the sinks and stalls, whereas the urinals are corner-left, partially obstructed by a privacy wall.
When one enters the room – even if one is entirely focused on the eliminatory act they’re there to perform – it’s hard for the sink area to not catch one’s eye, especially if someone is standing there.
On this particular afternoon, someone was at the sink, in what I initially took as a distressed position.
I say this because, well…the individual was not washing his hands, nor splashing water on his face.
No…he was bent forward, hands behind his back, his face submerged in a bowl of icewater.
The individual didn’t flinch or move as I relieved myself at the urinal, processing what I’d just seen.
As I held down the flush and turned around, he was still at the sink area, but had moved the bowl to the left-most end of the counter, still submerging.
I washed my hands at the middle sink (the one on the right is out of order), didn’t make eye contact, dried my hands with the usual 3-4 paper towels, and left the individual to his business.
It reminded me of that scene in The Dead Zone where the sheriff’s deputy (Nicholas Campbell), on the verge of being apprehended for a series of murders, commits suicide by bringing his face down on a pair of barber scissors. Unsettling stuff.
Scene #2:
On Monday, June 8 – announcing a rough return to the Daily Grind after a week-long trip to Maine – I signed off work early and my buddy Bret picked me up for a sojourn to Philly to see Aussie punk sensation Amyl and the Sniffers (the opener was Party Dozen, who I think I liked more live!).
Per the usual, we made stops at the Philadelphia Record Exchange in Fishtown – where I walked out with a stack of Attrition CDs (priced at $2.98 apiece!) – followed by dinner and libations (courtesy of Poe’s Sandwich Joint, nestled inside the Human Robot brewery).
But before all that fun stuff transpired, we made our customary stop at the Valley Forge Travel Plaza – the last option for food, drink, and bathroom-related needs before getting smacked upside the head with the automotive nightmare known as the Schuylkill Expressway.
I claimed an open stall with the least threatening aura, and went about my business.
In focusing on the task at hand, a noise jarred me from concentration:
Maybe 2 stalls down, someone vomited loudly.
After the first, painful-sounding wave, they proceeded to do it again.
It sounded so painful.
Now, I realize there’s nothing pleasant about nausea, and it’s even less pleasant when it consummates the act in a physical reaction mired in previously-ingested food, beverage, and bile.
But I don’t know that I’ve ever been in a public restroom when someone was being audibly sick (which is surprising, considering the number of times I’ve frequented travel-plaza bathrooms in my 45-and-counting years).
There was one time, up in Montreal – at the time of Kinetik Festival 2009 – where I attempted to walk back to the hotel by myself, probably after 2am. The streets were quiet, but I found myself passing by an enclosed bus stop where a lone man sat, hands on his knees, head bowed, the bill of a baseball cap obscuring his face.
Resting on the sidewalk in front of his feet was a vast puddle of puke which carried the stench of raw eggs and vodka.
(Eventually, after nearly getting lost, I made my way back to Usine C so Lizard could guide me back to the hotel after the last band was finished.)
Scene #3:
Another day of parking on one of the upper levels of the garage; once again taking the stairs down to street level.
On this day, upon opening the stairwell door, my senses were greeted with an acrid aroma.
As I made my way down each level, the stench became more powerful.
While I am growing more accustomed to the audacity of human activity – and the seeming disregard for maintaining a clean and habitable downtown – it impressed me when I got the bottom of the stairs, seeing what appeared to be a turd in the triangulated, shadowed corner between two exit doors.
I considered notifying the company responsible for the garage, but quickly forgot about the incident until I returned to the garage that evening, and it remained through the entirety of the following day before either some Samaritan or paid employee took action against the clumpy indignity.
That said, I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised – several years ago, someone used the outer wall of the garage to relieve their bowels, the aftermath of which lingered an even longer time before a combination of human effort and the elements cleansed the brick façade.
Scene #4:
Another odd incident in the office men’s room, wherein someone was huddled in the corner next to the sinks, carrying on a cell-phone conversation in hushed tones.
Curious why he didn’t take it to the stairwell or the break room, both close by.
Though taken aback by this, I offered an acknowledging nod and smile as I tended to business at the urinal.
While this was occurring, I wondered if whoever was on the other end of the call was noticing the odd background sounds when the urinal flushed and I stopped to wash my hands.
Based on the few words I heard, the conversation sounded serious.
Still, he acknowledged me with a tentative smile and nod through the mirror at the sink he was positioned in front of.
In a weird way, I felt like the one practicing improper workplace etiquette by intruding on his phone call as I ran the faucet next to where he was standing.
How ridiculous is that? What kind of a kooky world is this?
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