Respect at the Age of 45

I regret to report that the #1 stall in the men’s bathroom on the first floor was out of toilet paper this morning. I didn’t discover this until the end of my morning bowel movement. Like all people stuck in this situation, I scoured the empty toilet paper role(s) for remnants, rifled my pockets for discarded tissues and even searched the floor for bathroom reading material: sports page, SF Weekly, etc - anything that could take the place of toilet paper. Nothing. I pondered my options but I knew what I had to do.

Like a ladle dipping into a well, I lowered my hand into the water of freshly clean toilet bowl. I splashed water on the soiled areas until the grimy texture gave way to fresh skin. I retracted my hand and held it over the floor, careful not to drip water from the bowl on my trousers. I pondered my options again. This wasn’t over.

I could wait for my hand and buttocks to air dry, but that would take too long. Keenly relying on my second sense, I listened for approaching footsteps in the hallway. Silence. The bathroom was empty; I made my move.

With my pants straddling by ankles, I broke for the next stall. The thought of toilet paper outweighing the chance of getting caught with my pants down. Success. Clean.