The incessant grinding of a tile saw across the street earlier this week provided me with a poignant reminder that my job is portable. With frayed nerves and a cranky disposition, I packed up my laptop and sought refuge in a cozy café near the beach. A steamy Chai Latte and a plate of chicken and asparagus crepes restored my calm and I soon settled into organizing my appointment calendar.
My industriousness was short lived as a large group of retired beach walkers descended on the café, breaking my serenity with the shrill chatter and loud squawking one might expect from a flock of cockatoos. I was suddenly seized by an urgent call from nature of the variety that required complete solitude and security. I cast a nervous eye towards the line of old ladies jogging nervously in place at the rear of the restaurant. I quickly packed up my bag and hit the street in search of more suitable facilities.
I walked uncomfortably down to the esplanade. My desire for privacy was rapidly dissipated by imperative need. I scanned the shoreline for the blessed facilities that without fail exist in public spaces. Australian society deems adequate waste disposal as a civil right essential to the preservation of human dignity, and for that I hold this nation in the highest esteem.
I spied the location of my ambition a block away beneath the steps of the surf club. I waddled nervously past the playground filled with friendly and confident children calling out greetings to me, fully expecting my polite reply, towards which I had neither the inclination nor the ability. I was delighted beyond description when I at last reached my destination to discover that these were not your ordinary block of cold concrete stalls, but were high-tech, self cleaning private suites. I had found a safe haven!
I pushed the green button outside a vacant room. The door opened with a whoosh. I hung my satchel on the hook and pressed the red button which closed the door, activating the nauseating music meant to deter junkies and urban campers. I then relaxed into a moment of satisfaction unlike any I had ever experienced outside of a bed (except once in a dressing room at JC Penney). It was evident this was not going to be a rush job, so I settled back and had a good look around at my temporary accommodations.
The room was clean and surprisingly free of graffiti and vandalism. Instructions above the large sink made post-evacuatory hand washing mandatory, as that was the mechanism that activated the flush. How sanitary. Located at random intervals throughout the tile walls were spray nozzles of varying sizes and angles that maintained the impeccable cleanliness. Above the sink was a sign that read:
“If this red light begins flashing you have occupied the facility for too long. Leave immediately. The door is about to open.
If you hear an alarm, the cleaning cycle is about to begin. Leave immediately.”
As I pondered the precise definition of “too long”, it suddenly seemed as if I had been in residence for an eternity, and there seemed to be no end to my fit of productivity. Time stretched dreamlike as I imagined myself grasping for my computer, clutching my pants clumsily around my waist and lurching from a multi-directional shower spray into a sea of pink-clad little girls shouting “Hullo!” I tried to explain my concerns to my internal organs, but my autonomic nervous system was not taking calls from my cerebral cortex.
Eventually, I perceived a light at the end of the strictly metaphorical tunnel and began to anticipate my ablutions. I pressed the button on the paper dispenser. With a painful grinding sound, the machine reluctantly delivered 6 inches of thin tissue. I pressed the button again. Another scant offering materialized. I pressed the button a third time. Nothing happened. I applied my 12 inches of salvation with a delicate conservation that would impress a hardcore Greenpeace activist, only to immediately realize the complete inadequacy of the resource. A new wave of panic reinvigorated my digestive tract, undoing all I had just achieved.
After an interval, the paper dispenser once more graced me with a meagre 12 inches of insufficiency. I eyed the sign above the sink nervously as I waited for the stingy contraption to reset. Grrr-rrr-rrr-errr. Wait. Worry. Grr-rrr-rrr-err. Wait. Worry.
At last I reached a state of repair that would allow me to face the world outside with confidence and grace. In fact, I felt damn good! Like I could conquer nations. I approached the sink and thoughtlessly began whistling along to the perverted muzak that filled the cubicle.
And now, forever onwards, will magnificent feelings of salvation and empowerment be conjured in my memory by the gentle strains of Nat King Cole.
3 comments:
Tremendous reading of blessed relief!! Aren't those loos the strangest little heavenly bodies? I had occasion to use one in Paris in the early 80s. Problem was the door did not open when it was supposed to, I panicked and a stranger had to aid my escape from the electronic contraption.
I much prefer the sound of a civilised Adelaidian tardis.
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In this case, I believe it was a turdis.
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