I suppose most everyone does. A wink. A glare. A scratch. A gorgeous woman enters Starbucks, the eyes of others shift her way. A grumpy customer tells off a sandwich slinger—skip a beat, skip a beat, skip a beat … then watch the slinger’s mannerism as soon as the jerk exits the store. It’s all fascinating stuff; all life’s material.
I am especially fascinated by public bathrooms, and the role they play. Admittedly, this will probably get sorta gross …
Two people are on, say, a date. A first date. They’re talking, laughing. A spark exists, it’s undeniable. He’s a young guy, say, 26. She’s 24. Perky. Blonde hair, cute smile. She works in PR, loves her mother, her baby sister and her dog, Pluto. They both like this restaurant. It’s Greek. Excellent gyros.
Wait. “Excuse me,” she says. “I’ll be back in one minute …”
She grins, rises, leaves the table, walks off to the back of the eatery … where she proceeds to pull down her pants, sit on a round piece of porcelain and discharge brown mounds of stinky excrement from her anal cavity. There’s noise to accompany the vision—a loud, jagged ‘Pfft … pfft … pfft … pfft!’
When the task is completed, she takes pieces of white, rolled-up paper and shoves them into her anus. She uses her hand to wipe out the excrement. Again. And again.
Then she returns to the table; the entire incident unspoken.
One would never purposefully fart audibly on a date. One would never pick his nose, pull his nipple, download porn on his phone, call an ex-girlfriend, dance atop the table, scream out, “Bruce Berenyi! Bruce Berenyi!” for no apparent reason. Why? Because they’re all socially unacceptable behaviors, to be (at best) ridiculed and mocked. We are, with rare exception, in control. Our own public relations specialists.
Yet the bathroom visits happen. We pass liquid and matter, and it’s accepted as a goodnight kiss at the end of Date No. 3.