The day after Snint #1.
Okay. Little Boheme takes up a space that is basically the foyer of the wine lounge that’s open at night when I’m closed. In one corner of my space, there’s a glass door that leads into the wine lounge. (These details are so engrossing, Tracey. Please tell us more!) Just beyond that, on the right wall, is the door to the bathroom. Given my close proximity to the street and the fact that the bathroom doesn’t need a key to get into, I’m constantly having to police who goes in there. Lots of Hobo Joes wandering up from the canyons. Lots of hipsters who know the lounge has a bathroom. Lots of people who just breeze rightpastme, never acknowleding my presence, and use the bathroom. The Overlord refuses to put up a “Bathroom for Customer Use Only” sign, and yet, I’m expected to be the guard dog at the door, barking at people, telling them, “Hey! Customers only, Slappy!” Because Overlord is worried about the wine on the wine racks in the lounge, you see. I, however, am not. Not my wine, not my problem. Put locking cabinets in there if you’re that worried about thieving Hobo Joes.
So let’s just say I’m rather hit and miss about Potty Patrol, quite frankly. If it’s a pregnant woman, she gets a pass. If it’s a shriveled old man, he gets a pass. If I’m busy with a customer, the Pee-er or Poo-er will probably get a pass only because I’m preoccupied.
But this particular day …
It was early afternoon. Not a big coffee time of the day. I was actually sitting behind the espresso machine, doing paperwork. And lest you think I was diligently attending to businessy-type papers — ah, no. I was literally working with paper. There were paints and paint brushes and strips of paper.
A large fellow saunters right past me, through the wine lounge door, and into the bathroom. Not a word. Not a grunt. Not even a glance my way. I do not exist.
Several minutes go by. He comes back out. Without a word. Without a “thank you.” Without anything but a quick tug at his pants. Which is what can make life so unbearable sometimes, don’t you think? Those millions of teensy differences between how you think people should be and how they actually are. I find it all deeply discouraging.
So, knee-jerk, I decide to say something to him. He’s a step or two outside the building but I say — as politely as possible — oh, and this is key: My innocence and general all-emcompassing goodness in this scenario cannot possibly be overstated, mmkay? So I say, “Uh, sir, just to let you know for future reference, the bathroom is for customers only.”
He stops, turns, glares at me and walks on. But only a couple paces. Then he turns around and marches back towards me, face scrunched in anger. Oh, goodie, I think.
He stops at the counter and I notice again that he is very tall. In that moment, I’m grateful for the 6″ tall pallets that I’m standing on. I silently bless the dumpster behind Ikea from whence these were quickly and cleverly stolen because they’re very handy, make my job easier because the espresso cart is high, AND make me feel tough and bitchen in the face of imminent ass-hattery like this.
“What did you say?” he demands.
“I’m sorry. The bathroom is for customers only. It’s the policy of the owner of the building.”
Annnnd he’s off:
“How dare you say that to me! I AM a customer! I come here once a week for my group. Don’t you recognize me?”
Honestly, I didn’t. If he comes to a group, he comes sporadically. Oh, and may I add that his assumption that coming once a week and dropping a buck seventy on coffee gives him a lifetime poo pass is just precious to me?
“Um, sir. I see lots of people during a day and –”
He interrupts me.
“You do NOT understand! I need the bathroom! I am sick! I have FULL-BLOWN AIDS! I am FECALLY INCONTINENT! When I have to go, I only have like 30 seconds to find a bathroom or I will have an accident! I ran in here because I HAD TO GO!”
I try to speak. Maybe talk to him about a quality product called Depends. But he barrels right over me.
“I mean, do you think I left the place in a mess? Is that what you think? Because I didn’t. I didn’t. What — do you think I’m homeless or something? I’m NOT! I have FULL-BLOWN AIDS! I AM FECALLY INCONTINENT! DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT??? You totally hurt my feelings and offended me!!”
Oh, brother.
OH, FECALLY INCONTINENT BROTHER!!
Sweet Jesus, will you strike him dead now, just for me, your favorite?
Or alternatively, will you fill my bowels with poo o’plenty that I may pull down my pants and plop on his head?
I mean, I’d be good either way.
But no. No death. No poo-plop. Drat. Instead, I resort to the tired solution of hopeless idealists everywhere: TALKING RATIONALLY. I keep trying to interject, trying to get him to see reason. No, I don’t think you’re homeless, blahblah. No, I don’t think you left a mess, yaddiedoo. It’s just the policy of the building and I get to be the enforcer, yippieskip. Sorry about your butt, etc., etc.
And he just keeps at me, for about 10 minutes.
Mr. Fecally Incontinent is, apparently, fecally incontinent at both ends.
Sad.
And messy.
I don’t know why I let him go on so long. I am just worn down, I guess. When he leaves, I start to cry. At least the little mole man who’s been sitting there sipping his coffee and silently LISTENING TO ALL OF THIS is sympathetic now that the big scary man is gone and he will not be killed by speaking up on a woman’s behalf. And isn’t that nice?
When I call MB later, he says, “Point him out so I can kill him.”
(More to come on this. It’s an ongoing Snint.)
