July 31, 2010
July 29, 2010
The Hilton Hotel
How it is that I find myself at the Whitten Inn in Abilene, TX, again, would require an explanation fraught with banal details regarding a shipment of product received in torn and soggy boxes, which I am here to salvage if possible.
The more interesting story is my experience at the Hilton Hotel in Dallas, where I was all week for training.
For 3 days and 3 nights I was in the belly of a whale. Monday evening I drove through 3 hours of torrential downpour which only let up on the southern outskirts of Dallas. I was thus already frazzled. I took solace in the comfort that awaited me at a hotel of renown, a tower of luxury and prestige, proudly standing at the intersection of two multi-lane expressways north of town. Imagine my disappointment then to find that the highway exit took me to nothing resembling my hotel. After circling through backstreets I concluded I had the wrong address and got back on a highway. I called the hotel to ask for directions - the conversation went like this:
me: I need directions to the hotel
operator: OK, sir. I will be glad to help you with that.
[computer keys clicking]
operator: ....ok, lessee here...uh....ok
[more computer noises]
operator: where are you coming from?
me: Im going west on 635, approaching the tollway.
operator: OK...let me just...[clackety clack]...OK, if you're coming north on LBJ...
me: no, I'm going west on 635 or LBJ if you like. Approaching the tollway
operator: West on 635? Ah...hold on a minute...
[15 seconds passes]
operator: OK, from the tollway, you just exit....
me: No, I'm going west on 635. What is the hotel address?
operator: Our address...oh, hold on [paper rattling]...I have it...here...I think...5410 LBJ Freeway. It's at the Lincoln Centre. Do you know where the Lincoln Centre is?
me: No, just... Look. Are you at the hotel yourself?
operator: [silence]
me: You work there, right? How do you...I mean, you drive there every day...right? Can you put someone on who knows their way around?
operator: [computer clacking] The Lincoln Centre, it's on LBJ Freeway
me: I know, but there's no exit there. Where do I exit?
operator: [computer clacking] Let me pull up a map here...
me: WOULD you just PUT someone on who knows how to get there, please?
operator: Hold on, I'll put you through to the front desk.
[phone rings for 30 seconds with no answer]
And then I hung up. Amazingly, having never been there, not working there, without any clue about how to penetrate the bureaucracy of highways to get to there, I finally found a way in from the back - the only way in apparently.
The front desk clerk lady gave me a key card and I went up to the 7th floor to my room, bundled with a suitcase, laptop bag over my shoulder, 4 loose items on hangers cutting into one free finger, and my key card. Well. The key did not work - there was no green light, no red light, no noise. I spun the card every different direction, frontwards, backwards. No good. Feeling my eyes haggard with exhaustion, I trundled back down to the front desk with my luggage, and briskly told a different clerk that my key didn't work. He gave me another. To no one's surprise, I went all the way up to find again the key did not work, and came all the way down again. This time the only clerk was yet another man, this time of non-English-speaking lineage, which added a new complication. He gave me two keys, just in case and said in a thick Indian accent, "There is a courtesy phone by the elevator, so you can call if you still have trouble, sir."
I knew as he gave the keys to me that they wouldn't work. Why am I bothering to do this again? I should just insist on another room now, I thought. Or a maintenance escort. But ever non-confrontational, I went back up.
Glory. Neither of the two keys opened my door. I called the front desk for someone to come up and let me in, and I sat on the lonely bench in the elevator alcove. In 5 minutes, a man came along wearing a security uniform.
"Are you going to let me in my room?"
"Yes sir. I 'm not sure what's wrong."
"Are you going to fix the door? Because it needs batteries or something. You can't just let me it, because then I can't leave. The door needs to be fixed."
When we arrived at the door, he asked for my key cards. He put the first one in, and the light turned green, and there was the whirring of a tiny motor, and the door opened. He smiled,
"Sir, there's this little arrow on the card, and you have to..."
"I did exactly that multiple times with 4 different keys!"
And so, I tumbled into my room and shortly thereafter into my bed, which was a giant marshmallow.
Over three days, I spent some time, not much, in the lobby and the bar, and a breakfast cafe. Perhaps it was the deep circles under my eyes that drew everyone's gaze upon me. Or perhaps that I was the only one in the entire hotel who wore jeans to sit in the bar and have a beer. All the other AT&T Convention attendees were in suits and ties, even after hours, even at the bar.
By day two, I began to notice things. The sadness of the hotel employees. The skanky, starving ducks in the water fountain. The 40 foot ceiling in the lobby supported by massive columns three feet in diameter. These columns were not only hollow (I discovered by knocking on them), but were made of something like 1/4 inch pressboard wrapped in wallpaper. I noticed immediately that the omnipresent music was constantly set to techno-dance-pop, frequently so gimpy and childish and throbbing as to be embarrassing to be in the same room with. Decidedly non-Hilton-ish, I thought. More like Studio 54. One expected a laser show at any moment. I asked an older woman in the gift shop what she made of the crazy music that was pumped in louder than normal into her tiny little space. She laughed nervously and urged me to share my thoughts with the front desk.
The most (only?) redeeming encounter of the entire week was having my shoes shined by a black man at a shoe-shine stand. Since I changed to sneakers after the first day, I handed him my dress shoes as I went to my seminar Thursday morning (today? seems so long ago). He respectfully said they would be ready when we broke for lunch. When I went to pick them up, I saw to my astonishment that these 20-year-old Johnston-Murphy's had not looked any better on the day I bought them. I had seen him earlier applying all his force and artistry to another man's shoes - how he polished and buffed, and pulled his towel across the man's feet quickly with both hands. I regret very much not wearing my black shoes then, just so I could sit and watch him. He handed my shoes back to me in a recycled plastic grocery bag and thanked me. I gave him 6 on the $5 he charged, but in that moment I tell you I was in the presence of one of the last of a dying kind - not just shoe shiners, but anyone who humbly, non-self-consciously renews, restores, takes the broken and binds it up - who serves this small remaining segment of a culture of manners and civility and dress, besotted as it is by its corporate evils.
I could sing this man's trade. He doesn't know that a guy now 150 miles away is blogging about him, celebrating his skill, his simplicity. I just want to weep with joy at this discovery - to have a pair of shoes that actually need shining, to pay a skilled artisan a pittance to ply a nearly lost trade. He helps me be a gentleman, he helps me hold back, in the smallest way, the dunking tide of informality. He spurs me, he shows me a door to walk through saying, "Looking nice, sir, you should do it more often." Why wouldn't I hire the services of a shoe shiner every chance I get now?
And thus, the whale coughed me up on the beach, and I now run to Nineveh.
The more interesting story is my experience at the Hilton Hotel in Dallas, where I was all week for training.
For 3 days and 3 nights I was in the belly of a whale. Monday evening I drove through 3 hours of torrential downpour which only let up on the southern outskirts of Dallas. I was thus already frazzled. I took solace in the comfort that awaited me at a hotel of renown, a tower of luxury and prestige, proudly standing at the intersection of two multi-lane expressways north of town. Imagine my disappointment then to find that the highway exit took me to nothing resembling my hotel. After circling through backstreets I concluded I had the wrong address and got back on a highway. I called the hotel to ask for directions - the conversation went like this:
me: I need directions to the hotel
operator: OK, sir. I will be glad to help you with that.
[computer keys clicking]
operator: ....ok, lessee here...uh....ok
[more computer noises]
operator: where are you coming from?
me: Im going west on 635, approaching the tollway.
operator: OK...let me just...[clackety clack]...OK, if you're coming north on LBJ...
me: no, I'm going west on 635 or LBJ if you like. Approaching the tollway
operator: West on 635? Ah...hold on a minute...
[15 seconds passes]
operator: OK, from the tollway, you just exit....
me: No, I'm going west on 635. What is the hotel address?
operator: Our address...oh, hold on [paper rattling]...I have it...here...I think...5410 LBJ Freeway. It's at the Lincoln Centre. Do you know where the Lincoln Centre is?
me: No, just... Look. Are you at the hotel yourself?
operator: [silence]
me: You work there, right? How do you...I mean, you drive there every day...right? Can you put someone on who knows their way around?
operator: [computer clacking] The Lincoln Centre, it's on LBJ Freeway
me: I know, but there's no exit there. Where do I exit?
operator: [computer clacking] Let me pull up a map here...
me: WOULD you just PUT someone on who knows how to get there, please?
operator: Hold on, I'll put you through to the front desk.
[phone rings for 30 seconds with no answer]
And then I hung up. Amazingly, having never been there, not working there, without any clue about how to penetrate the bureaucracy of highways to get to there, I finally found a way in from the back - the only way in apparently.
The front desk clerk lady gave me a key card and I went up to the 7th floor to my room, bundled with a suitcase, laptop bag over my shoulder, 4 loose items on hangers cutting into one free finger, and my key card. Well. The key did not work - there was no green light, no red light, no noise. I spun the card every different direction, frontwards, backwards. No good. Feeling my eyes haggard with exhaustion, I trundled back down to the front desk with my luggage, and briskly told a different clerk that my key didn't work. He gave me another. To no one's surprise, I went all the way up to find again the key did not work, and came all the way down again. This time the only clerk was yet another man, this time of non-English-speaking lineage, which added a new complication. He gave me two keys, just in case and said in a thick Indian accent, "There is a courtesy phone by the elevator, so you can call if you still have trouble, sir."
I knew as he gave the keys to me that they wouldn't work. Why am I bothering to do this again? I should just insist on another room now, I thought. Or a maintenance escort. But ever non-confrontational, I went back up.
Glory. Neither of the two keys opened my door. I called the front desk for someone to come up and let me in, and I sat on the lonely bench in the elevator alcove. In 5 minutes, a man came along wearing a security uniform.
"Are you going to let me in my room?"
"Yes sir. I 'm not sure what's wrong."
"Are you going to fix the door? Because it needs batteries or something. You can't just let me it, because then I can't leave. The door needs to be fixed."
When we arrived at the door, he asked for my key cards. He put the first one in, and the light turned green, and there was the whirring of a tiny motor, and the door opened. He smiled,
"Sir, there's this little arrow on the card, and you have to..."
"I did exactly that multiple times with 4 different keys!"
And so, I tumbled into my room and shortly thereafter into my bed, which was a giant marshmallow.
Over three days, I spent some time, not much, in the lobby and the bar, and a breakfast cafe. Perhaps it was the deep circles under my eyes that drew everyone's gaze upon me. Or perhaps that I was the only one in the entire hotel who wore jeans to sit in the bar and have a beer. All the other AT&T Convention attendees were in suits and ties, even after hours, even at the bar.
By day two, I began to notice things. The sadness of the hotel employees. The skanky, starving ducks in the water fountain. The 40 foot ceiling in the lobby supported by massive columns three feet in diameter. These columns were not only hollow (I discovered by knocking on them), but were made of something like 1/4 inch pressboard wrapped in wallpaper. I noticed immediately that the omnipresent music was constantly set to techno-dance-pop, frequently so gimpy and childish and throbbing as to be embarrassing to be in the same room with. Decidedly non-Hilton-ish, I thought. More like Studio 54. One expected a laser show at any moment. I asked an older woman in the gift shop what she made of the crazy music that was pumped in louder than normal into her tiny little space. She laughed nervously and urged me to share my thoughts with the front desk.
The most (only?) redeeming encounter of the entire week was having my shoes shined by a black man at a shoe-shine stand. Since I changed to sneakers after the first day, I handed him my dress shoes as I went to my seminar Thursday morning (today? seems so long ago). He respectfully said they would be ready when we broke for lunch. When I went to pick them up, I saw to my astonishment that these 20-year-old Johnston-Murphy's had not looked any better on the day I bought them. I had seen him earlier applying all his force and artistry to another man's shoes - how he polished and buffed, and pulled his towel across the man's feet quickly with both hands. I regret very much not wearing my black shoes then, just so I could sit and watch him. He handed my shoes back to me in a recycled plastic grocery bag and thanked me. I gave him 6 on the $5 he charged, but in that moment I tell you I was in the presence of one of the last of a dying kind - not just shoe shiners, but anyone who humbly, non-self-consciously renews, restores, takes the broken and binds it up - who serves this small remaining segment of a culture of manners and civility and dress, besotted as it is by its corporate evils.
I could sing this man's trade. He doesn't know that a guy now 150 miles away is blogging about him, celebrating his skill, his simplicity. I just want to weep with joy at this discovery - to have a pair of shoes that actually need shining, to pay a skilled artisan a pittance to ply a nearly lost trade. He helps me be a gentleman, he helps me hold back, in the smallest way, the dunking tide of informality. He spurs me, he shows me a door to walk through saying, "Looking nice, sir, you should do it more often." Why wouldn't I hire the services of a shoe shiner every chance I get now?
And thus, the whale coughed me up on the beach, and I now run to Nineveh.
July 22, 2010
...not that I have some strong party affiliation...
...no, I was a lifelong Republican (except for the 1996 race in which I voted for the ultra-hyper-conservative Constitution Party, which was a mistake) until 2008 when I proudly voted for Obama, and am still proud of that fact. The reasons are too many, and the tsunami of anti-Obama propaganda makes it almost impossible to get a word in to explain why.
On the current propaganda tour, last week I heard a guy blaming Obama for the oil spill in the gulf, that the administration didn't respond fast enough. I am flabbergasted. If the federal government had swooped in on day one and
they would be complaining of Obama's trigger happy bent on controlling all of Time and Space, godlike in his aspirations etc. But the administration WAS actively involved, from 'day one.' Everyone who has been paying attention knows that.
More examples of propaganda:
NOW.
Remember, the same sorts of unbridled, loose-cannon rhetoric was leveled against Bush for 6 years by the crazy, propagandizing left. I saw websites and read chain-emails accusing Bush of being Hitler reincarnated, picturing him with a Hitler mustache, hand lifted in a Sieg Heil sign, accused of a new colonialism, a mass-murderer, baby-killer, war-monger, conspiratorialist etc. I saw idiotic bumper stickers declaring things like "Bush is a punk-ass chump" - brilliant public discourse and focusing on the issues, I said at the time.
I denounce all of this, on either side.
But how can real dialog take place? Where and when? Who listens? Who will change their minds in the face of a stronger argument? Will they not burrow deeper? Plug their ears and chant "we shall overcome" no matter what rationality and reason may be presented? No evidence of any sort can convince most of the public. Politics has become religion, nay more, a holy war. We are right, and they are wrong, and don't forfeit your soul by believing the "lies" of the other side.
I watched Hotel Rawanda again this week. I recognized the same sorts of heated rhetoric and mindless allegiance among the Hutu's against the Tutsi's in that movie as we hear today from so many quarters.
This, this is one more reason I say we walk in a vale of tears. So many voices, so many passions, so little reason.
On the current propaganda tour, last week I heard a guy blaming Obama for the oil spill in the gulf, that the administration didn't respond fast enough. I am flabbergasted. If the federal government had swooped in on day one and
A S S U M E D C O N T R O L
they would be complaining of Obama's trigger happy bent on controlling all of Time and Space, godlike in his aspirations etc. But the administration WAS actively involved, from 'day one.' Everyone who has been paying attention knows that.
More examples of propaganda:
- The altercation where a boat tangled with an Israeli naval blockade, was called a group of "terrorists" in my hearing, and another boating party is openly planning another attempt, apparently. But it was clearly a relief mission with a US representative onboard bringing medical supplies, food and stuff. They were armed but not terrorists. It blew up and lots of people died. A big mix up.
- Friends of Obama want to build a 13-story mosque on the site of the Twin Towers. Who can say what this is about, except that Obama is behind it, because we all know he's secretly a Muslim...even though he gave the most solid profession of gospel-loving, washed-in-the-blood Christian faith any presidential candidate has ever given.
- Obama openly supports the invasion of the United States by foreign powers. Boom.
- Obama is selling the souls of our nation's children to Satan by signing a bill to extend unemployment benefits, which have been expired for about 6 months.
- Obama...oh, was I too vague a moment ago? No I was perfectly clear: Obama is devising his evil machinations to allow foreign forces to invade Amer'ca. He has mobilized, he has activated, he has unleashed his massive judicial monolithic army of cyborgs the rain down like invading dragons from the sky on the noble state of Arizona for their new anti-immigration law, "which most Uh'mer'cans support." They say.
NOW.
Remember, the same sorts of unbridled, loose-cannon rhetoric was leveled against Bush for 6 years by the crazy, propagandizing left. I saw websites and read chain-emails accusing Bush of being Hitler reincarnated, picturing him with a Hitler mustache, hand lifted in a Sieg Heil sign, accused of a new colonialism, a mass-murderer, baby-killer, war-monger, conspiratorialist etc. I saw idiotic bumper stickers declaring things like "Bush is a punk-ass chump" - brilliant public discourse and focusing on the issues, I said at the time.
I denounce all of this, on either side.
But how can real dialog take place? Where and when? Who listens? Who will change their minds in the face of a stronger argument? Will they not burrow deeper? Plug their ears and chant "we shall overcome" no matter what rationality and reason may be presented? No evidence of any sort can convince most of the public. Politics has become religion, nay more, a holy war. We are right, and they are wrong, and don't forfeit your soul by believing the "lies" of the other side.
I watched Hotel Rawanda again this week. I recognized the same sorts of heated rhetoric and mindless allegiance among the Hutu's against the Tutsi's in that movie as we hear today from so many quarters.
This, this is one more reason I say we walk in a vale of tears. So many voices, so many passions, so little reason.
Shrill Republicans
Among the examples of Republican fly-off-the-handle-ism in an apparent attempt to gain the media spotlight, I heard Newt Gingrich howling yesterday on Fox News Radio about how the Senate approved the extension of jobless benefits to millions of people still out of work due to the long recession.
His reason for objection? The debt dollars that will have to be shouldered by future generations.
So now Im wondering which is worse: the expenditure of billions and billions on war in the Middle East, or of a much smaller amount to families (remember the families, Newt? your constituency?) whose children will benefit during the short term while their mom's and dad's find work?
I wonder if the assumption on the part of Gingrich is that most of those remaining unemployed are simply deadbeats who want to live off the government. Unfortunately, I personally know too many honest men and women who want to work but cant, and there is still too much talk of layoffs nationwide to assume this.
I would even venture to say that some of those children might be willing to take on a little more national debt to get them through the worst recession since the 30's so they can even have a future.
But in comparison to the spending on unnecessary war sponsored largely by the formerly Republican congress...well, there is no comparison.
His reason for objection? The debt dollars that will have to be shouldered by future generations.
So now Im wondering which is worse: the expenditure of billions and billions on war in the Middle East, or of a much smaller amount to families (remember the families, Newt? your constituency?) whose children will benefit during the short term while their mom's and dad's find work?
I wonder if the assumption on the part of Gingrich is that most of those remaining unemployed are simply deadbeats who want to live off the government. Unfortunately, I personally know too many honest men and women who want to work but cant, and there is still too much talk of layoffs nationwide to assume this.
I would even venture to say that some of those children might be willing to take on a little more national debt to get them through the worst recession since the 30's so they can even have a future.
But in comparison to the spending on unnecessary war sponsored largely by the formerly Republican congress...well, there is no comparison.
July 21, 2010
I take back my denigration of Abilene, Texas
Yes, I take back my thoughts as I drove out of town this morning about the paucity of decent restaurants, the hopeless tangle of discontinuous potholed streets, and how I lamented the forlorn downtown area void of any accommodation for visitors in the way of quaint dining rooms with atmosphere, the absence of historical sights or night life.
I take back my execration of the narrow spectrum of radio stations, my grief at especially high obesity rate, my consternation at the beer selection in the hotel lounge. How the sushi restaurant was in a converted Dairy Queen, how the few small college campuses were unsung and essentially invisible, how the one familiar city sight/sound of pounding bass hop-hop vehicles managed to interrupt my erstwhile quiet evening.
I take it all back because of an unheard of privilege granted silently to me by the motel patrons. I speak, dear reader, of the Whitten Inn of Abeline Texas. Where the motto is, "sleep at the Whitten and you'll purr like a kitten." Deer and antelope play nearby. The sun sets late, unobstructed by mountains, mesas, rocks or rills, yea, of landscape of any sort.
But when I stayed the first night at the Whitten, room 165 on the C wing, I noticed not a single car other than mine on the entire wing. I had the entire wing to myself. Dozens of other travelers stayed at the Whitten Inn, but none were on my wing. Why? I wondered. It was wonderfully quiet.
As it turned out, I stayed at the Whitten Inn the following night, indeed tonight (I type in the past tense though I am writing this blog using the free wireless internet connection provided. Maybe I should switch to present tense). When I checked in, I asked the girl behind the counter, "Was it coincidence that my wing was empty last night, and that you are putting me there again tonight?"
She replied, "We are careful about who we put in the C Wing. Truckers and stuff, we put in A and B, but business customers we usually put in C."
Am I, newly employed, to be the happy recipient of this decidedly non-democratic lodging scheme? It is 9:00 here, and again my wing is EMPTY except for me. What La Quinta or Best Western would do such a thing?
To make things even better, the gave me vouchers for 1 free drink from the hotel lounge, and a free breakfast - not continental, a real eggs-and-bacon breakfast. And the rooms are spacious, clean and smell good.
I gripe plenty about bad things in the world, but let me praise the Whitten Inn, where I get all this for $62 per night.
I take back my execration of the narrow spectrum of radio stations, my grief at especially high obesity rate, my consternation at the beer selection in the hotel lounge. How the sushi restaurant was in a converted Dairy Queen, how the few small college campuses were unsung and essentially invisible, how the one familiar city sight/sound of pounding bass hop-hop vehicles managed to interrupt my erstwhile quiet evening.
But when I stayed the first night at the Whitten, room 165 on the C wing, I noticed not a single car other than mine on the entire wing. I had the entire wing to myself. Dozens of other travelers stayed at the Whitten Inn, but none were on my wing. Why? I wondered. It was wonderfully quiet.
As it turned out, I stayed at the Whitten Inn the following night, indeed tonight (I type in the past tense though I am writing this blog using the free wireless internet connection provided. Maybe I should switch to present tense). When I checked in, I asked the girl behind the counter, "Was it coincidence that my wing was empty last night, and that you are putting me there again tonight?"
She replied, "We are careful about who we put in the C Wing. Truckers and stuff, we put in A and B, but business customers we usually put in C."
To make things even better, the gave me vouchers for 1 free drink from the hotel lounge, and a free breakfast - not continental, a real eggs-and-bacon breakfast. And the rooms are spacious, clean and smell good.
I gripe plenty about bad things in the world, but let me praise the Whitten Inn, where I get all this for $62 per night.
July 15, 2010
Another bathroom conversation
I observed several months ago that men are developing a new language of etiquette consisting of non-verbal signals - a language used mainly in public toilets. With apologies to any female readers, here is another glimpse into the evolving silent idiom of the privy.
---
Scene: A restaurant.
Man 1: Enters. Face red, walks smartly to Urinal 1, unzips. (Translation: I'm so tense from that performance evaluation. I can't wait to get a beer and relax.)
Man 1: Stands uneasy for a moment at Urinal 1. Looks around. Skitters to Urinal 3 as belt buckle rings. (Translation: If someone comes in, I'd hate to be standing next to the sink.)
[Time passes. The room is silent as a tomb.]
Man 1: Examines the tiles and chrome pipes before him; tries to forget why he is here. (Translation: Please just pee, so I can join my friends. Why cant I just pee? Jeez, I'm not 13 anymore.)
[High heels in the hallway outside. Ladies room door opens and closes. In less than a minute, a toilet flushes far away. The same high heels again that eventually fade away.]
Man 1: Head hanging low, eyes closed, thinking about Niagara Falls. (Translation: Just relax, old boy. There's a good fellow. You can do it. Yes. Come on, come on! Oh Danny Bo-oy! the pipes, the pipes are ca-lling!)
[Enter Man 2. Goes into Stall 1. Slams the door behind him, but not drawing the latch. The door creaks back open and rests against his back.]
Man 1: Stretches neck to the side until vertebrae pop, eyes roll up to the ceiling. (Translation: Oh no, oh no, oh no! I cant pee with someone else in here! Unless perchance he flushes the toilet, and the toilet is one of those long flushers. Then I may have a chance. Come on, dude. Help me out here. Please be a thorough hand washer.)
Man 2 in Stall 1: Stall door bangs and is left half open. Quick zipper down in 0.2 seconds and belt buckle tinkling. (Translation: Hhaaaah! I'm dying here. I gotta pee like a racehorse!)
[No noise from either men.]
Man 1: Places one hand against the cool tile, leaning forward, jaws clenched. Recites quadratic formula to distract self. (Translation: That's it. I'll never pee again. Not until I can escape ALL humanity, far from listening ears, from the toxic rays of watching eyes. Yes, yes! Away! To a place of seclusion! To an abandoned bungalow in some reclusive Montana wilderness...)
Man 2 in Stall 1: Heavy sigh, a pause and then, the sound of a thick stream, pouring forth with might. It sounds unearthly to Man 1, like a frothing vortex. Man 2 passes gas freely and without reserve. Sigh of contentment. (Translation: Damn skippy.)
Man 1: Frustrated, zipping pants loudly and going to the sink to wash, pretending to be finished. Shakes water from hands unhurriedly. Languidly pulls out paper towels, dries hands and strolls to the door. (Translation: He's probably some college student, virile, carefree and frank, probably been drinking plenty already. Me, I get stage fright. I'll pretend to have already peed, stand outside, and come back in when he leaves.)
[Man 1 leaves as vortex of Man 2 peeing continues unabated.]
[Outside, four minutes pass in agony. Man 1 reads flyers on bulletin board feigning perfect thralldom at the announcements of macramé lessons and local band performances.]
[Man 2 finally exits visibly happier, stronger, smarter. Catches faintest sideways glance at Man 1, knowing his sorry dilemma, smirking arrogantly. Man 1 reenters the men's room. Skitters across to Urinal 1. Waits. Finally reaches over, turns on cold water faucet at sink.]
Man 1: Holds breath, eyes glaze, whimpers audibly, euphoric like a penitent viewing The Pieta. Urinates, first slowly, then with unstoppable and profound vigor. Shouts out "YES!" Pounds the tile wall twice in triumph. Wipes away a grateful tear with free hand. (Translation: Bless the Lord, Oh my soul, and all that is within me...) Finishes. Sings out, boldly now, open mouthed, in full operatic voice, "Oh Danny Boy, the pipes! The pipes are calling!" Plays a fast drumbeat on the stall door with the flats of his hands. Turns toward sink and saunters victoriously to lavatory, washes, dries hands like Alexander in the palaces of Susa. Combs hair lightly with fingers, continues to hum Danny Boy. Jumps in the air, clicks heals together. Grabs the door handle.
Man 3 in Stall 2: Clears throat. Flushes discretely. (Translation: Nice weather were having, eh? Oh, I say old fellow. You forgot to flush.)
To see part 1, on The Development of Neo-Bathroom Idiom, follow this link
----
---
Scene: A restaurant.
Man 1: Enters. Face red, walks smartly to Urinal 1, unzips. (Translation: I'm so tense from that performance evaluation. I can't wait to get a beer and relax.)
Man 1: Stands uneasy for a moment at Urinal 1. Looks around. Skitters to Urinal 3 as belt buckle rings. (Translation: If someone comes in, I'd hate to be standing next to the sink.)
[Time passes. The room is silent as a tomb.]
Man 1: Examines the tiles and chrome pipes before him; tries to forget why he is here. (Translation: Please just pee, so I can join my friends. Why cant I just pee? Jeez, I'm not 13 anymore.)
[High heels in the hallway outside. Ladies room door opens and closes. In less than a minute, a toilet flushes far away. The same high heels again that eventually fade away.]
Man 1: Head hanging low, eyes closed, thinking about Niagara Falls. (Translation: Just relax, old boy. There's a good fellow. You can do it. Yes. Come on, come on! Oh Danny Bo-oy! the pipes, the pipes are ca-lling!)
[Enter Man 2. Goes into Stall 1. Slams the door behind him, but not drawing the latch. The door creaks back open and rests against his back.]
Man 1: Stretches neck to the side until vertebrae pop, eyes roll up to the ceiling. (Translation: Oh no, oh no, oh no! I cant pee with someone else in here! Unless perchance he flushes the toilet, and the toilet is one of those long flushers. Then I may have a chance. Come on, dude. Help me out here. Please be a thorough hand washer.)
Man 2 in Stall 1: Stall door bangs and is left half open. Quick zipper down in 0.2 seconds and belt buckle tinkling. (Translation: Hhaaaah! I'm dying here. I gotta pee like a racehorse!)
[No noise from either men.]
Man 1: Places one hand against the cool tile, leaning forward, jaws clenched. Recites quadratic formula to distract self. (Translation: That's it. I'll never pee again. Not until I can escape ALL humanity, far from listening ears, from the toxic rays of watching eyes. Yes, yes! Away! To a place of seclusion! To an abandoned bungalow in some reclusive Montana wilderness...)
Man 2 in Stall 1: Heavy sigh, a pause and then, the sound of a thick stream, pouring forth with might. It sounds unearthly to Man 1, like a frothing vortex. Man 2 passes gas freely and without reserve. Sigh of contentment. (Translation: Damn skippy.)
Man 1: Frustrated, zipping pants loudly and going to the sink to wash, pretending to be finished. Shakes water from hands unhurriedly. Languidly pulls out paper towels, dries hands and strolls to the door. (Translation: He's probably some college student, virile, carefree and frank, probably been drinking plenty already. Me, I get stage fright. I'll pretend to have already peed, stand outside, and come back in when he leaves.)
[Man 1 leaves as vortex of Man 2 peeing continues unabated.]
[Outside, four minutes pass in agony. Man 1 reads flyers on bulletin board feigning perfect thralldom at the announcements of macramé lessons and local band performances.]
[Man 2 finally exits visibly happier, stronger, smarter. Catches faintest sideways glance at Man 1, knowing his sorry dilemma, smirking arrogantly. Man 1 reenters the men's room. Skitters across to Urinal 1. Waits. Finally reaches over, turns on cold water faucet at sink.]
Man 1: Holds breath, eyes glaze, whimpers audibly, euphoric like a penitent viewing The Pieta. Urinates, first slowly, then with unstoppable and profound vigor. Shouts out "YES!" Pounds the tile wall twice in triumph. Wipes away a grateful tear with free hand. (Translation: Bless the Lord, Oh my soul, and all that is within me...) Finishes. Sings out, boldly now, open mouthed, in full operatic voice, "Oh Danny Boy, the pipes! The pipes are calling!" Plays a fast drumbeat on the stall door with the flats of his hands. Turns toward sink and saunters victoriously to lavatory, washes, dries hands like Alexander in the palaces of Susa. Combs hair lightly with fingers, continues to hum Danny Boy. Jumps in the air, clicks heals together. Grabs the door handle.
Man 3 in Stall 2: Clears throat. Flushes discretely. (Translation: Nice weather were having, eh? Oh, I say old fellow. You forgot to flush.)
To see part 1, on The Development of Neo-Bathroom Idiom, follow this link
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