Author: Stephen Ho

To all of those brave fellows who dare enter a gross and filthy washroom stall

Ladies and gentlemen, I regret to inform you that the status of this, your humble Porcelain Pilgrim is somewhat diminished. Seeing as I have already written on this washroom, I feel as if I have devolved from a critical reviewer of washrooms held to naught but the highest of standards, to a mere storyteller of somewhat humorous anecdotes. May Cloacina—Venus of the Sewer—have mercy on my soul.

This morning I had a class in the dreaded and dreary sub-basement of the Faubourg building. The building being a mess in itself, I usually try to avoid its washrooms, for they could not be much better. However, I was already running late and had something of a stomach ache. The experience wasn’t too awful, with the exception of the flush lever which was partially broken—one was required to pull up instead of pushing down on it. Fear not, for I used my foot (protected by my boot) to complete the unsavoury endeavour.

I proceeded to class, which went well, but near the end of it I felt my bowels beginning to act up again. I resolved to make another visit after class. 2:30 p.m. approaches, and there was the usual outpouring of students from every door. I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to find a stall.

There weren’t many students in the washroom and were in fact multiple stalls open. I made for my previous stall, since I like to think I’m a loyal fellow, but I was disappointed to find that some imbecile hadn’t had the capacity to pull up instead of down and had left all of his waste and toilet paper all over the seat and in the bowl. He that doesn’t flush is also the one to leave a mess on the seat—the two vices invariably go hand in hand.

I made my temporary home in the stall next door and began to take the preliminary notes which inform this piece. A three stall set up, the one to my left was already taken and the other stall just described was to my right, leaving me in the middle. I saw boots enter the stall to the right and I assumed they would heel spin as soon as they perceived the state of affairs there. The boots did indeed turn, but to my great surprise they did not walk out but instead I heard the door close and lock. Is this happening? What does this person intend to do in that disaster of a stall?

I waited with bated breath, the anticipation doing nothing to ease my constipation, but such is the price of serious journalism.

The boots turned once more and I could feel disappointment bubbling up, was it simply another fool come to add insult to injury? To desecrate an already disgraced throne? I heard no splash. The boots remained pointed towards the pot for what seemed like ages. I heard the sound of toilet paper being rolled out, and then the honking of a nose being cleared. I waited on, staring at the boots, hardly daring to blink.

I heard a flush. Then the sound of more toilet paper. Had I misheard?

The boots turned slow, first one foot, then the other. I heard him sit. What’s this? What a paragon of virtue! This brave fellow actually cleaned up that virulent mess and made that stall usable once more. I felt a fierce pride for this unknown gentleman, and I nearly congratulated him through the wall but I stopped short, for social norms don’t allow for that.

I was about to exit when a flush came from the stall to my left. It went on and on, a thousand-year flush cycle it seemed. I could only imagine the horror of the occupant as he cringed in the corner of the cramped stall waiting for the violence of the whirlpool to end. I had a fear of the aerosol effect for years, and God, what a nightmare this seemed to me, even with the protective wall between us. I had had enough of this horrid place, and decided to make my own daring escape—I hit the lever and booked it.

As I was making my exit, I noticed the stall to my right was once again filled with unflushed urine. A shame, that hero’s efforts had gone down the drain. An allegory for the futility of kindness in an uncaring and septic world? Perhaps.

If you eat pizza and poutine when you’re lactose intolerant—you’re in for trouble

Going off the topic of the last article’s meditations, I would like to consider the interesting blend between the private and the public that washrooms afford us.

In our day-to-day lives, many things in the world seem to be divided into the private and the public, a vestige and inheritance of the modern age. However, the space of the washroom, the water closet, is an ambiguous place and, as such, makes us uncomfortable. I cannot speak for the female experience, but in mine it is taboo and certainly worth a harsh word or at least a dirty look if eye contact is made at the urinal.

The washroom is a private space made public out of necessity, not out of preference. The act of defecation or urination is a subject so personal that sometimes even with our closest partners we feel ashamed or embarrassed to discuss or to perform before them. And yet, we do it in public on a daily (or nearly daily) basis. What an interesting phenomenon. A topic brushed over or swept aside due to its sensitive nature, or rather, our sensitive nature.

In almost all aspects we have become more progressive. All except this. I like writing these stories because they are a common ground. In the same, and far less amusing way that math is a common language. Do we dare dream of peace and unity through the common topic of poops and poots? How absurd, but how magnificent it would be.

In line with the ambiguous nature of our perception of defecation, I would like to, as usual, present you with a short anecdote.

I was out late with some friends one night this past summer and we decided to pick up a snack before we all headed home. Usually in the late hours the go-to meals are always greasy and cheesy. It’s normally the best thing ever, unless you’re lactose intolerant—which I am. Actually, it’s still the best thing ever because it’s like the forbidden fruit for me. That salacious pizza just asking to be in my mouth, I mean, just look at its dressing! So I ate it. With a side of poutine. If anyone who is reading this is lactose intolerant, you probably know that eating any of those items on their own is problematic to say the least… but together? That’s almost a death wish.

Being the idiot I am, I figured it would be fine and I’d just hold it in until I got home. No big deal. I said my goodbyes and hopped on the metro, beginning my long journey back to the West Island. My journey consisted of metroing to a station (which I will not disclose) where I had parked my car and then driving back to the west.

Halfway through the metro ride I knew there was no way I was going to make it all the way. Alone with my own thoughts and the ever increasing potential of soiling myself, I quickly considered my options. The metro itself definitely wasn’t an option, most stores or restaurants were closed… where could I go? I wracked my brain for a feasible solution.

Finally, I arrived at my station and I awkwardly speed-walked my way towards my car some blocks away. I felt myself beginning to prairie-dog and I knew it was an emergency that couldn’t wait any longer. I knew I had a Kleenex box in the car but did I really want to go outside? My body made that decision for me and I constructed a makeshift cover between my car itself and the open door of the front passenger side. I hung on for dear life to the handhold on the ceiling, squatting next to my car in the middle of the parking lot while my bowels turned themselves inside out.

Needless to say, I finished that up as quickly as possible and sped away under the deep cover of night, leaving only a steaming pile as a testament to my fatal dietary decisions.

Don’t worry though, it rained heavily the next morning so I’m sure it all worked out and there’s totally no way anyone could have stepped in that. Right?

If we all learn to make light of these humorous and most definitely human experiences we can all relate to (mostly), I think we’d, as a species, be a step closer to understanding each other no longer through a discourse of difference but through one of empathy. Or maybe that’s some pseudo-philosophical bullshit I pulled out of my ass faster than cheese curds go through me. Who knows?