11:30 a.m. and it was time to pee. "NOW, PLEASE!", if my bladder had vocal chords, gurgled though they would be under water.
My poor bladder: aka the Titanic's hull, its various emergency compartments quickly bubbling up with sea water, sloshing over the safety walls into yet more compartments, and me frantically searching for a lifeboat.
I'M THE KING OF THE WASHROOM!
Gotta find one first. Sail around the corner at 5 kph. Thar she blows…a men's room.
Business people swam through the downtown tower, looking at me in awe, figuring I had an incredibly urgent meeting to attend with millions of dollars at stake.
Nope. Drank too much coffee.
I entered the men's room quicker than Bill Clinton said yes to the dress.
Now the real stress. So many important decisions needed to be made in a flash…as I got ready to flash the urinal.
Minding your pees and cues is of udder importance in the male public washroom.
First challenge – quick math. I counted 6 urinals. Five open, the far right one occupied.
First quick decision – I took the far left urinal, furthest away from the other occupier. That's the golden rule of the golden shower – always furthest away.
The occupier started to whistle a tune. The Titanic theme? No, no, no. Not cool. I had no idea if he's so happy peeing because he got a raise that day, enjoyed holding his dick in his hands, or wanted to dance with me on the upper deck.
Judging from his ill-fitted suit, TSX haircut and a certain cockiness in his stance, so to speak, I figured this guy for a broker. But why the whistling?
Perhaps his penis had a blue tooth connection and he's getting live stock quotes. Viagra is up 20%. Did he get a good stock tip on his, ah, tip?
I'd had enough of this man whistling dixie. Egressing the washroom quickly was now task number one.
I made a difficult decision – Three quick shakes and I pulled in. My little big man shrunk back slinky-style, rather upset to go back in his little box so soon.
On a normal day I would shake at least 10 times. One sacrifices in emergencies.
I couldn't leave without a good hand wash. I was not Poppie from Seinfeld.
The soap dispenser got romantic. As I pressed down on its extension, a barely perceptible piece of dried soap on its tip caused it to misfire and "ejaculate" milky-white goo all over my coat.
Monica Lewinsky's dress popped into my mind. I did not have sexual relations with that dispenser.
The damn tap! The hand sensor gave me three seconds of water and stopped.
The whistling pee-er was approaching.
I bent down towards the floor and then popped back up, hoping to convince the tap that I was, indeed, a new person. Please sir, can I have some more water? The tap Nazi did not deliver.
The towel dispenser did not respond to my frantically waving hand. The towels and the tap were working together.
I scurried out of the washroom, trying not to look like I just left a Roman bath.
The whole logic of the modern day public washroom is deeply disturbing to me. Very, VERY few people in this world have seen my penis, and yet there I was displaying it, in the open, not directly to, but beside a complete stranger.
The ability of the modern day public washroom to turn Roman bath is profoundly easy. One simple 45 degree turn and presto, say hello to my Augustus Flacidus.
From now on it's only private peeing for me.
