On privies, privacy and potential problems
- Mike Dewey: Life Lines
- April 29, 2023
- 898
What do these famous folks — Judy Garland, Jim Morrison, Lenny Bruce, Whitney Houston and Elvis Presley — have in common?
Take a minute to think about it … we’re in no hurry here.
OK, then … let’s proceed.
If you knew they all died in the bathroom, take a bow.
I mention this after having heard the news that Bed, Bath and Beyond had declared bankruptcy and was liquidating its assets.
Another American retail brand name to bury, alongside such onetime stalwarts as Woolworth, Blockbuster, Fotomat, Toys R Us, Tower Records, A&P, the Limited, Radio Shack and the Sub Barn.
Well, that last one wasn’t exactly nationally known, but I miss it.
Fifty summers ago, a dozen or so of my high school friends formed a slow-pitch softball team, one that competed in the same league as the Sub Barn. Our sponsor, somewhat controversially, was a downtown watering hole called the Third Base Lounge, whose slogan was “Last Stop Before Home,” which was catchy as hell.
We played mostly weekend double-headers at fields that didn’t offer much in the way of amenities, including public restrooms, which meant that when nature called, we headed into the pine trees.
That same summer I worked for the college’s maintenance-grounds keeping crew, and I remember my first day on the job and how I was assigned the task of cleaning one of the frat house’s bathrooms. Using a toothbrush, on my hands and knees, I had to scrub the floor’s tiling, and it was not what you’d call pleasant duty.
As low man on the totem pole, however, I understood my role.
In grade school we didn’t have restrooms, per se. The nuns called them “lavatories,” a word I’d never heard before, but like so much of what separated the parochial from the public, it was just another euphemism meant to create an artificial distance between the two.
I mean when a kid puked, both places stunk to high heaven, no matter what saint or which street the institution was named after.
High school restrooms — at least the boys version — were so dense with smoke that it put one in mind of a foggy London thoroughfare, missing only cobblestones, gaslights and Jack the Ripper lurking. There was a strict no-smoking ban on the books, but like so much of what passed for rules, a lot of guys pretty much ignored them.
Which is why it was passing strange that when we all wore our Third Base Lounge jerseys to the annual awards assembly, there was a minor teachers’ kerfuffle, since the place was 21 and over and there we were, all of us 18 years old, accepting our accolades, flaunting so many societal norms that our elders could only fume.
“Screw ’em if they can’t take a joke” was our shared philosophy.
By the time I got to college, restrooms were communal affairs, and they included showers, which, as you can imagine, offered little in the way of privacy, so I made a habit of using them late at night. I didn’t mind, though, since even then, I suffered from insomnia, a fact of life I deal with to this very day … er, I mean, night.
Notre Dame had just begun admitting women, which meant major refurbishing to living spaces that had been all-male since before the Civil War. As you might expect, things didn’t always go smoothly, and the student newspaper printed numerous letters from girls who had many complaints, not the least of which had to do with mirrors and outlets for their hair dryers and curling irons.
The summer after graduation, I got my college girlfriend a job at a downtown bar, despite the fact she wasn’t quite old enough to serve liquor, so the deal was she’d only work the lunch shift.
Then she found out the tips were far more lucrative at night, which created considerable conflict between us. After all, I knew what that place was like after sundown since I was a regular there.
It came to a head when she was applying her makeup in the family bathroom, primping for an evening’s work, despite my misgivings. One thing led to another, voices were raised, accusations were aimed like missiles and then she kneed me in a most sensitive area.
Ah, young love. Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
Since then restrooms and I have had a truce, though there were times — at rock concerts, sporting events and the like — when I thought my bladder might burst from waiting in line for so long.
Occasionally, something good happens. One night while attending a Minor League Baseball game with my wife, I walked out of the restroom just in time to scoop up a foul ball that rolled my way. Had I been in my seat, I’d never have gotten it, so there you are.
The house we share has three bathrooms, which still amazes me. Never thought I’d live in a place with more of them than people living in it. Seems so, I don’t know, almost decadent, kind of sinful.
Which brings us to “Psycho,” the Hitchcock thriller that features what is universally considered the scariest bathroom scene ever filmed. No matter how many times I’ve seen Janet Leigh meet her bloody end, I can’t help think one thing and one thing only.
I will never, ever, for as long as live, take another shower.
Mike Dewey can be reached at Carolinamiked@aol.com or at 6211 Cardinal Drive, New Bern, NC 28560. He invites you to join the fun on his Facebook page, where bathroom humor is always clean.