As I turn the corner into the first stall, a shit polka-dotted toilet bowl greets me; its insides creeping to its outs. I lift the seat with my foot to discover what is most definitely a long lost work from none other than Jackson Pollock himself.
The muscles in my throat contract. I manage to successfully fight off their attempt to strong-arm the contents of my stomach from my body. I try not to think about what’s stashed in those menacing brushed-steel boxes perching on the walls in each stall.
Pink for the toilets and the counters, blue for the mirrors. Thank god he spent half an hour explaining that to me. The complexity of the job might have overwhelmed me and who knows what kind of violent mental breakdown I might have unleashed upon this bastion of perfection, proficiency and solitude. Fucking cleaning bathrooms! Not that hard.
I finish cleaning both bathrooms in about ten minutes. Now, I have to go find that putz that I saw checking himself out in the reflection on the side of the shake machine and fixing his hair. Pudgy bastard – looks like what would happen if that Dutch kid from the paint cans and Big Boy had a child; and wore glasses; and became a metro-sexual. This, apparently, is who is going to be my brilliant leader for the duration of my indenture.
I find him and he wastes fifteen more minutes of my time explaining to me how to pick up the trash that litters the parking lot and pull weeds. Just in case I had been thinking that I might be required to cut down some bushes, or maybe uproot a light post with my bare hands, he clears everything up.
I fake attentiveness, nodding occasionally, as I watch the morning traffic flying past on the highway. I’m standing there and I begin to drift off and start trying to imagine how I could get this vacuous prick to stop giving me the play-by-play on putting things into a bag and somehow get him to skip, vacantly, into oncoming traffic. No dice.
Got all that?”
Shut, the fuck, UP!
Umm, yeah.”
“Alright. I’ll come out and get you when it’s time for your break.”
Right.
He goes back inside and I spend the first half of the day gardening; in a parking lot; in khaki pants, black dress shoes and a used uniform, which is at least a size too large, and stained with grease.
Yup, these is yard workin’ clothes.
After a few hours (once I’m fairly certain that they’ve forgotten about me) one of their merry workers comes mindlessly traipsing out into the thousand degree parking lot and mightily proclaims: “Man it’s hot. I’ve been looking for you for like the last fifteen minutes; we need you to plunge a toilet.”
What!? So, not only had they forgotten about me but they finally are offering me respite from this goddamn heat… to plunge a fucking toilet!? How does this place function? Thirty people inside and not one capable of unclogging a toilet. They had to send someone looking for me for fifteen minutes, instead of just having them do it?
“Okay?”
“Oh, and then you can go on your break I think.”
Hoo-ahh!
Everything gets straightened out and I rest. I stare down at my clothes, covered in sweat, dirt and… What’s this? A piece of gum has joined that plastic doo-dad on the end of my shoelace to the cuff of my pants.
Wonderful.
Hey. Have you read the David Foster Wallace short story about the bathroom attendant? It's in Brief Interviews With Hideous Men. You may enjoy.
ReplyDeleteWhile I have no idea if you'll read this, I could safely have said that I had never read a word of Mr. Wallace's writing when you originally asked.
ReplyDeleteNow, however, I do have one of his books (that a teacher from Albion gave me), but I'm only just about midway through it. It's A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again.
While I can relate to some of what I've read, I'm not completely sold on it yet, though. I mean, it's good, it just hasn't particularly grabbed me.