We could tell by the number of cars parked outside the Black Dog Bar and Grill that seating would be either limited or unavailable. “Let’s go. We’ll never get a booth, let alone a table,” said Julie.
“We can’t really know unless we try,” I replied. As we entered, I was immediately disheartened by the large number of people standing around with all of the booths occupied.
“Come on,” I said. “There’s a table in back.”
As we sat and waited for the waitress to bring menus, the door to the men’s room, about five feet away, flung wide open, providing an unobstructed view of the toilet and urinal. How appetizing, I thought. The man who had been in there then proceeded to wash his hands at a sink that was located within the dining area along the wall between the men’s and women’s restrooms. After he was finished washing, he pulled a plastic lever several times on the overhead paper towel dispenser, dried his hands, and then walked away.
“Well,” I said, “I guess we’ll know who doesn’t wash his hands.”
“Gross. Can we change the subject?”
It would have been so easy for the owners to install a tall partition in front of the restroom area so the entire establishment would not get a full view each and every time the door opens. And I knew it was just a matter of time before someone forgot to lock the door while inside taking care of business (it happens all the time). The sound of the towel dispenser actually made me feel as if I were inside the restroom. Sometimes I wonder: Am I wrong? Do other people notice these things?
“Is it just me?” I asked Julie.
“Well, not really. It’s a bad design. But, yes, it’s partly you.”
“Should I say something?”
“No.”
The Black Dog experience reminded me of a summer writing workshop I attended two decades ago in Washington’s Cascade Mountains. The workshop was held at a rustic off-season ski lodge with a warning that there would be no frills. I slept five nights in a sleeping bag on the floor in a crowded dorm room. Fine. I’m tough. Sleep on the floor? No problem. I was even prepared to eat on the floor and not complain.
After checking in and claiming a sleeping area in a remote corner, the first thing I did was to satisfy my curiosity about the bathroom situation. I wasn’t expecting much, but what I saw in the long, narrow room stopped me cold. Near the doorway there were several sinks side by side; a single shower was at the far end; and in between the shower and sinks were four toilets in a row separated only by a couple feet of open space! The shower at least had a curtain. I imagined trying to use one of those toilets and all that that might involve along with other men brushing their teeth, drying off in the shower, shaving, and casually conversing. “Anyone get the score on last night’s Yankee game?”
The workshop included three excellent meals each day as part of the package. And the chef was not simply a fry cook; he was a highly trained artisan who prepared a variety of unusual dishes with an international flair. It was all so delicious; at every meal, served buffet style, I left the dining area like a giant swollen tick. But after two days, with my lower abdominal region basically on strike, I began to wonder: Where is all this food going?
All of it didn’t just dissipate into nothing. The human intestine might be around 15 feet long, so it could store quite a bit of…uh…material. But I knew at that moment, a reckoning would soon be upon me, like piles of driftwood building up beneath a bridge on a flooding river. The river would win and take out the bridge at the same time. And when it happened, I didn’t want to be three feet away from some guy brushing his teeth.
On the third day with no action below the equator, I took the matter into my own hands, traveled to a drugstore at a nearby town, and made a strategically timed visit to a gas station that I had scouted out earlier: it had a single occupancy restroom with a locking door. And thus unburdened, I was able to enjoy the rest of the workshop without a care.
Those responsible for the ski lodge must not have thought anyone would have a problem with their restroom layout. Or maybe they were laughing the whole time about their joke that would be a gift that would keep on giving. But why be embarrassed about a natural body function that all animals for millions of years have dealt with every day of their lives? Suddenly, one person (me) has an issue.
Look at dogs: they have no shame: anywhere, anytime, and they’ll look you in the eye, maybe even dog-smiling, as they’re “doing it.” Pure honesty and guilelessness on full display. Dogs have many other admirable qualities, and who are we humans to think we are so superior with our pumped up egos and fancy restrooms? In fact, maybe taking a hint from the dogs is not a bad move. Mark Twain, a keen observer of humankind and dogs once said: “I have been studying the traits and dispositions of the "lower animals" (so called) and contrasting them with the traits and dispositions of man. I find the result humiliating to me.”
I might have to think about this from time to time when I am in a philosophical mood. The meaning of life, the extent of the universe…whatever. But I would not want to take it too far. Julie loves dogs. But even she has her limits.