By Daniel Tiernan
I need to get off this bus and find a toilet. Cow tongue for dinner probably wasn’t the best choice last night. So much for being adventurous. Yup, I’m getting off. It’s pouring rain and I don’t think there’s a public restroom in the area. There wasn’t one in the grocery store last time I checked. Living in South America has been a good experience, but if they give me a comment card on the way out, I’m going to recommend more toilets. And apologize to anybody who was forced to witness a white dude shitting in an alley somewhere near the corner of 12 de Octubre and Mariscal Foch. Is there an alley here? I don’t have much time. Wait, that brewery I haven’t been to yet might have a bathroom. In from the rain, I ask the hostess. Yes, in that direction. The toilet marked for the male variety of humans is occupied. Or, at least, it’s locked. I don’t wait around to see if there’s an actual soul behind the door. I’ll use the women’s if necessary. If it’s open, no scrutiny will descend until I emerge. Thank god. There’s a third. A family toilet? Or for wheelchair users? Doesn’t matter. Right now it’s for me. Relief. Thank you jesus. My panic dances away on the throne of mercy. I used to be a fervent believer. This would have been another example of grace. Now, I’ll leave it up to good fortune. I’m sure a poor soul is shitting in the alley somewhere else in the world. For now, this brewery is my savior. I should repay it and become a patron. But when I leave the restroom, I see a clear path to the door. I hope that grace is real and stride through the entry, back into the rain.
This piece is from The Feminist Toilet #1. To go back and read more, click here.