Loo Life: In the Absence of Gus

Technology makes our lives easier, or so it would seem. Billions of dollars are spent every year tightening our grasp on what’s possible; in creating a world where precious time and energy can be saved for lofty pursuits like not getting out of your seat. I have always embraced the cuddly, goofy puppy that is technology— all it ever wants to do is please us. Or does it?

The public bathroom has for years been a do-it-yourself kind of place; if only for the simple fact that you are not likely to find someone who wants to do it for you. Basically, you are on your own in the WC, with the occasional exception of bathroom attendants. These people always used to bother me. It always seemed to be some dude named Gus (he always had a nametag) who fidgeted and stared at the ceiling until you approached. I didn’t really need Gus’s help, but I didn’t really have a choice in the matter. He held the paper towels hostage, and if he gave me one, I was expected to tip. So, I tried to get all I could out of the transaction—towel, spritz, moisturizer, news, career advice. Basically anything so that I felt I was getting my money’s worth.

Technology is the new bathroom attendant, and it offers its services gratis. Where once I would drop an elbow or a foot on the flusher, there is only a dark and knowing infrared sensor waiting for me to leave. The problem here is that, after I am done, it doesn’t always realize I’ve left. So, I walk by again and again, shuckin' and jivin' like a bantamweight boxer to interrupt any laser beam that it may be projecting. I am trying to trick the computer into making it flush, but it doesn’t flush. Thinking that it will eventually know that I’m gone, I move on….

To the sink. Again, where once there were hot and cold knobs, there is only a cycloptic laser-eye. So, I do my little hand dance in front of this eye—an arrhythmic hand-jive offering to the faucet gods—and still it offers no agua. Fine, I think, beginning to become petulant. I will start with soap. The soap dispenser is also electronic, but it actually does respond. It spits a miniscule amount of liquid soap in my hand in an almost snobby way; like a haughty countess throwing scraps to a dirty beggar. I lather, and do the hand-jive again. Nothing. Son of a…..

I walk to the paper towel dispenser, which is a futuristic see-through blue that allows me to see the paper towels inside. When I was in grade school, there was a crank you turned that delivered the paper towels. This one makes you wave your hands at it. You actually have to flash your hands by its strange little red eye in order to dry your hands. So, there I am, doing an odd “wax on, wax off” impression in front of a bathroom wall. No towels. I am making a fool of myself for a stretch of rough, semi-absorbent paper that never arrives. The red-light is blinking now, in what I imagine to be a silent laser-giggle. I huff, and storm out the door, wiping my still-soapy hands on my pants as the door closes behind me.

And all I can think about is how much I miss Gus.