First Person
|
First
Person |
by Nat Michael
As
a middle-aged, garden-variety butch dyke, I have my collection of bathroom
tales. I'm never questioned while in one with a femmy friend. But going
solo can be another thing all together. My M.O. is in/out, with an occasional,
"Yes, you're in the right one," when a woman stands gawping
in the doorway.
Burlington's Fletcher Allen Hospital has
several lobby restrooms I've used for years while driving for human resource
agencies.One time while rubbing my hands under the dryer this woman timidly
walked in. Her head was down and she was clutching her purse to her chest.
Raising her gaze she gasped, "Oh! I am SO sorry!" and she scuttled
out again before I could say anything. She had a row of fresh stitches
over one eye. I dashed after the poor thing and found her standing, bewildered,
looking at the other door, marked MEN. She gratefully let me escort her
back. I hoped the rest of her day went much, much better.
Montreal's Trudeau Airport has the
women's and men's side by side with a common entrance. Running in to make
a quick pit stop, a business type in his three-piece suit veered in my
direction and fell in step right behind me. Decisions made in these moments
are a ratio of embarrassment to urgency. Urgency won. I just plowed ahead
to a stall. I could see him in the mirrors as he came to a dead stop,
so obviously surrounded by – women! They all stared at him as he
slowly turned round, mouth open in disbelief. I almost felt bad about
it, but was more relieved I hadn't been called Monsieur.
The story ends with us coming out
opposite doors at exactly the same moment – wouldn't you just know
it?! He came to a dead stop again. I fled into the terminal.
At a London Pub called The Bishop
In Residence, a tall fellow in a camelhair coat and I nodded our matching
Harris tweed caps at each other and courteously held open doors. He went
to the right to the pub. I went to the left to the loo. As I pushed on
the door I heard a clatter and bellow on the stairs: "Oy!Oy! That's
the lasses'!!" But by then I was in, with him following close behind
to catch my arm, and I heard him choke when he realized that he’d
crossed the final threshold and it was all pink tiles.
Back in the pub, I wouldn't have recognized
him without his coat and cap, sitting with his missus – except for
his beetroot-red face. I considered sending over a pint, but wasn’t
sure about the etiquette for the situation.
My favorite is still the women's bathroom
at the Vermont Statehouse in the downstairs hall. It was the second round
of Civil Union hearings. We had all been on edge for so long now. And
the place was rapidly filling up. My immediate goals were bathroom and
a seat in the balcony. Focused, I pushed on the bathroom door. There was
a commotion far away. I turned my head. Down the other end of that long,
elegantly carpeted hallway was a frantic Voice: "Sir!! That's the
Ladies' Bathroom!!" So close, I almost leaned my head against the
door. It was one of the Statehouse guards in his immaculate green uniform.
The chase was on. I watched his green hat bobbing and weaving through
the expanding crowd.
I debated. The long drive in
the snow, nerves on edge, that big travel mug of tea. I watched the green
hat. He was closing in. Some of the throng were taking an interest. I
considered the possibilities for a real comedy routine with the biggest
audience ever. And more were spilling in with each swing and icy blast
of the outer doors. I finally just turned around and waited as he made
his sprint to the finish. He pulled up short in front of me so I was able
to watch him try to take in a deep breath at the same time as he was realizing
that I was at the right bathroom. His face! He breathlessly began apologizing,
very embarrassed, very red, very gracious, very aware of our little sideshow.
Impulsively I put my hands on his shoulders and said in all sincerity,
'This is going to happen ALL evening!" We got a laugh from the audience.
I peed. The rest you know.
Nat Michael lives in Underhill.