Don't forget to wash your hands

The Stinking Rose is a great Italian restaurant in the heart of San Francisco’s Little Italy. I walk up the hill with my two California co-workers, skirting the more-famous Chinatown, with its hoards of out-of-towners, group tours, and ugly products of questionable origin and poor quality. We walk past a couple of adult entertainment establishments and finally find ourselves at the front door to our destination. The smell of garlic is overpowering. It is provocative.

We sit in a small booth with warm lighting and thick burgundy curtains. It’s cozy, and we’re starving. We order wine. We order bread. We order, I shit you not, a full pan of roasted garlic. It’s good stuff, but it makes you thirsty. So, I drink some wine, but mostly water. Lots and lots of water. Good times.

We eat our entrees, engaging in easy conversation (spinal taps, cysts and cow hormones among the topics), and we are generally having fun. But, see, my bladder is less pleased. My bladder was getting full just thinking about dinner on our walk past the Hustler Room. And now I’ve added two glasses of wine and three of water. My bladder’s security color has gone up to orange. It’s time to excuse myself.

On my steady walk to the restroom, which I proudly find on my own, I think about my bladder and how our relationship has taken a turn for the worse over the past few years. It interrupts my nights now, my movies, my meals. Fuck you, bladder. So, now I'm pissed, but at least I have arrived. I pass a man who is studying the vintage photographs on the wall outside the men’s room, nod my hello, and push open the door.

You need to understand that things like this happen very quickly. You don’t always have time to put the pieces together. And, even if you do, you rarely do so in the right order.

So, here I am, in a very small men’s room that has a urinal and a toilet right next to each other with no kind of stall or divider whatsoever. I’ve been in these bathrooms before, and have always wondered if they’re meant to be single-user facilities or not. Of course they are. Right? I mean, the toilet is just sitting there, in the open. Does the ladies' version have two toilets? Doubtful. This has a urinal just to give a guy a choice. Right? I look back at the door and see immediately that it has a little latch lock on it – something that shared bathrooms, of course, never have. So, my suspicions are confirmed. Single-user restroom.

And, the key detail that I’ve left out is this: this particular single-user restroom already has its single user. A huge man, who did not lock the fucking door, is taking a Niagara piss. Right there. Right there, not two feet away. And, as I stand there, wondering what my next move is, I remember the other guy. The guy in the hallway, who is most likely wondering why I have: 1. cut in line and 2. gone into a single-user bathroom with Mr. Jabba T. Hutt.

I really don’t know what to do. Can I just walk up to the toilet and do a home-style urination six inches away from this guy? Do I leave? Do I pee in the sink? I decide to bide time by washing my hands, hoping that he’ll finish up and we can basically switch positions with minimal awkwardness. We’re back-to-back as I turn on the faucet, but I can tell that he hasn’t moved, hasn’t turned to see what idiot has entered his occupied WC. His urine is so loud, I doubt he can even hear the sink. I finish washing up, and the guy is still peeing. It sounds like he’s nowhere close to finishing. He sort of groans. Now what?

I decide I’ll just quietly step outside until he's done. I don’t think he even noticed me to begin with. I opt to not dry my hands, as that will only make more noise, and I slip out. And, of course, there's the other guy. Shit, I forgot about him. He's standing about a foot from the bathroom door, still staring at the photos. Great. Do I just stand there, with my dripping hands, and wait with him for Mr. Hutt to emerge? What kind of message does that send? I mean, if you're the photo guy, and you are in fact waiting to use the bathroom, are you suddenly fearful to go in there? Do you think I'll follow you and moisten my hands again??? Not to mention, waiting to meet Jabba face-to-face is a daunting idea in and of itself.

This is terrible. I hate this so much. So I flee. I take my bladder and flee.

I return uncomfortably to the table and pretend to drink more water as I cross my legs. I wait for the check, pay the bill, say my goodnights, and run back to my hotel like a little girl chasing down AC Slater.