Not quite on a whim, but with very little itinerary and even less planning, I had decided to venture into Manhattan for the day. I wouldn’t say I live close to New York City, but I live close enough that I can drive down, take a train, and visit for the day and should probably do so on a more regular basis that I do currently.
So, I rolled into Grand Central Station around 8am, walked a few blocks, got a pumpernickel bagel with plain cream cheese and gravlox, and, of course, a large coffee. The restaurant was crowded and loud, So, although there were open seats, I chose to take my order to-go.
Walking a few blocks, and the a few blocks more, I found a little secluded park with seats and tables that were only mildly soaked from the morning downpour. My coffee was finally cooled down enough to drink and I enjoyed the dark roast with reckless abandon. Initially I was taken aback at the price of my bagel, but the cream cheese was delicious and fresh, and the layers of tender cured salmon were piled so high it was almost obscene.
I was already completely full by the time I finished my coffee and half the bagel. I tummy grumble and the obligatory release of intestinal gas signaled with no uncertainty that I need to find a restroom. No problem, I thought with the confidence of someone who hasn’t explored much of New York City, with such a dense city like this I should have no trouble finding a place to relieve my bowels. Besides, there’s a McDonald’s right across the street right now!
Strolling into the McDonald’s the first thing I noticed was the security pad on the doorknob. Of course, since this was a major city you couldn’t just have anyone come in and poop, that would be madness! But as I ventured to the counter I notice the sign hanging rather high on the men’s room: “out of order”.
Well, great, I thought, that sucks, but I’ll find some other place. It wasn’t like it was an emergency situation. I left and ventured south, finding a CitiBike station and riding further south, doing a little site-seeing, but keeping an eye out for potential BM opportunities.
I parked my bike, and found a Wendy’s right next to a Taco Bell. Opportunities galore! Popped into the Wendy’s first, and I could not find a restroom at all. I asked at the counter and was told there was no restroom, but try next door (next door being Taco Bell). If there’s any place morally obliged to have free, open restrooms it would be a Taco Bell!
I left the Wendy’s in a hurry, leaving only a muted toot and the aroma of outrage at the lack of facilities for fast food patrons.
Since this story wouldn’t be worth putting to word if it ended now, you very well know that the Taco Bell likewise did not have a restroom. I mean, c’mon, with the property values so high in Manhattan who would waste the valuable real estate on something so frivolousness as a room dedicated a toilet?
But there was good news in my future, I thought, since I CVS was at the end of the block. This was the best case scenario, since in my wallet I possessed a card letting people know I have a disease and cannot wait with respect to the use of a restroom. Sure, my disease is under control and it wasn’t yet an emergency, but a pharmacy chain like CVS should feel a moral obligation to allow someone with an irritable bowel disease to find relief inside their store!
A quick run through the aisle revealed that not public restroom existed, but my spark of hope did not cease. The pharmacy itself was yet to open, but I found a cashier and asked about the the restroom.
“No, sorry,” she said.
I reached into my pocket, ready to procure my Crohn’s and Colitis Foundation card, but she was quick to reiterate:
“I’m so sorry, but we don’t have a restroom here,” she lied. “No restrooms. Maybe you can try the Wendy’s down the street. I’m sure they have one.”
And before I could respond she disappeared behind a counter, and then through a backdoor, obviously wanting to be done with our interaction.
Determined to not let this ruin my day, I grabbed another CititBike and made it to Union Park. I enjoyed walking around the Green Market, wishing I lived nearby so I could buy all the fresh vegetables without worry of them getting crushed or wilted in my day’s travel. But throughout the entire time I felt the desperate need to find a restroom growing, and thus couldn’t enjoy my time in the park to it’s fullest.
With the speed of someone with growing determination, I continued my trek south, and quickly found myself in Washington Square Park. You know the place, even if you’ve never been to the East Coast of the US. It’s that place in NYC with the arch. For some reason my mind sparked. There has GOT to be a public restroom here. How can a city of millions not have at least one stall in a famous park dedicated to the most basic of human needs.
I found a building on the park grounds. I thought it was good news at first, but no, it was just a park office building. My hope was diminishing, but wait…as I walked further I found the men’s room! Finally my luck was improving, and about time! At this point the urgency was starting to hit critical mass. My mind was wondering to the handful of times I went on long day hikes and had to venture far off the trail into the woods to defecate in nature and wipe myself with leafy vegetation. Damn you Manhattan for not supplying me with this option! Only a paved over landscape for all of the island!
I burst into the Washington Square Park restroom with optimism, only hesitating briefly at the ungodly stench of stale urine. I’m about to kick open the sole stall door when I noticed the pair of sneakers and dropped trousers in the space underneath the stall walls. Dammit, occupied. Maybe I should wait? But no, there was already someone waiting in line to take a dump in the stall that I only now noticed. As a bleeding heart liberal I took the brief second to hate myself for not noticing the dark skinned park worker previously.
But there was no time for liberal guilt: the desperation at finding a restroom was becoming paramount. Now, I’m not always the most calm and rational person in the best of situations, but now I was becoming seriously irked at my situation. Needless to say I cursed ever coming to that retched city, dropping many f-bombs as I ventured out of the park and headed south, vowing never to set foot in the cursed hellhole again.
I damn well paid for a day’s pass with CitiBike, so I grabbed another bike and continued my trek south. By now I was halfway between Grand Central Station and Battery Park, and had yet for find a place to shit. Sure enough, I was getting aggravated. But only a few blocks ride and right next to a bike station was an upscale grocery store. Fantastic! I rejoiced. I had never found a grocery store without a public restroom before. And believe me, I’ve used all the open restrooms in all the grocery stores around me, since I have a penchant for shopping early in the morning, sometimes as the morning cups of coffee invigorate my bowels to urgent attention.
I almost couldn’t contain myself as I impatiently waited for those slow automoatic doors to let me enter. I systematically walked the circumference of the store, keeping my eyes peeled for a sign declaring “Restrooms” or the telltale man and woman symbols indicating as much.
No such luck.
Aggrevated to say the least, I huffed my way past the cashiers and towards the exit when a cashier friendly asked, “Did you find everything you were looking for?”
“Do you happen to have a restroom I could use?” I asked.
Practiced manufactured sympathy in her voice she responded, “I’m so sorry, no. Perhaps you could try down the street?” She did not say what location down the street. With deliberate rudeness I marched out of the store without a word.
Pausing at the CitiBike station I had an idea. Starbucks! They’re always good for a reliable bathroom. A quick Google search determined that the nearest Starbucks was only a couple of blocks away. Only pausing briefly to admire an art gallery with a naked statue of a minotaur and a similarly naked staute of a fox headed man, I made record time bursting through the wooden doors of the Starbucks.
I marched my way to the counter when a glorious sign met my eyes. The man-slash-woman symbol of a trans-accepting coffee shop. Starbucks, you got my thumbs up as I entered the room and locked the door. A fresh and clean toilet, glittering brightly in the harsh florescent lights. It was a beauty to behold, and I dropped trough as men do in the sight of beauty.
I paused before I sat my bare bum on the seat. I’ve conditioned myself in the last decade to apply a layer of toilet paper onto the seat. This is not to ensure sterility, but to ensure that the seat is not wet and that there is amble toilet paper available. I hesitate. The desperation of needing to relieve my bowels is beyond palpable at this point, but I relent to my conditioning. I reach for the toilet paper and find…
…only a solid cardboard tube. The roll is empty. A panicked search of the room revealed no possible location for a spare supply of toilet paper.
“Motherfucker,” I explained as I stormed out of the restroom. “This fucking city. This fucking piece of shit city. No wonder I never come here. How can a shithole city like this not have a single fucking place to fucking take a fucking shit.”
At this point in my story I need to apologize to the young ladies sitting by the door, enjoying their coffee and conversation as I rudely cursed my way violently through the side door and back onto the Manhattan street.
Again I headed south, pulling up Starbucks locations on my phone and finding on an aggravatingly number of blocks away. Halfway to my intended destination I spotted a sign to my left, jutting out onto the wide street, “Coffee”. It seemed like any a potential opportunity to relieve my bowels, so I crossed the street diagonally at the first chance I had and bee-lined for the restaurant.
I hesitated at the door. The exterior of the building looked drab and discarded. I allowed my vision to see past this and focus on the interior through the glass and I spotted an upscale eater worthy of my pursuit of finding of a place to poop.
I bounded through the doors and found the place clean, friendly, and most importantly in possession of a unisex restroom at the far corner of the narrow restaurant. Of course I noticed the bulky keypad lock indicative of all New York City shitteries.
For some reason I thought to play it cool. I ordered a small coffee and sat in the corner closest to the restroom. The coffee was more delicious than it aught to be, considering I ordered it only to gain access to the beacon of hope that was the singular restroom at the back reaches of the coffee shop.
A happy sign declared that although the restrooms were for paying customers only, the code for their access was freely available on the patrons receipt. Fuck, I kicked myself mentally as my sole cup of coffee did not come with a receipt.
Being the kind of man that I am, I held in the gas that had brewing inside of me, not wanting to embarress myself or destress the patrons surrounding me. I waited minute after minute before I found a worked who seemed like they had a couple of seconds free and asked for the code for the restroom.
“Zero Eight Zero Nine”
I rushed the door, keyed in the number, entered the room and locked the door. No need to check the toilet paper availability, as it was ample. I covered the seat with the TP and sat my bare ass down on it. In no time flat I was able to relieve the horror that had been brewing inside of me all morning.
Instantly my whole outlook on life was elevated. I had a new determination and purpose as I sat upon the porcelain seat and finally was able to release the sin from inside of me. It came without pity or restraint. Lump after lump after lump fell into the bowl. Solids and gas escaped, and I sighed in relief at finally finding a decent place in the whole of Manhattan. It smelled foul, for sure, but I did not care. My most basic of mammalian needs had finally been met.
As I left the stink I had created, a woman was looking to enter the restroom. In the short time I was using the facilities the coffee shop the restaurant had become exceptionally crowded, so I did not delay in pushing past the young woman looking to use the restroom, and escaping from the coffee shop before anyone could place the blame of the stench onto my behalf.
But all was good, I felt. I strode with confidence towards the Hudson River with renewed vigor and oddly much looser pants. It only took an ungodly amount of time and effort to meet a common human need in the overcrowded metropolis of Manhattan, but I had prevailed and succeeded in the deed. I victoriously strode confidently down Canal Street, feeling twenty pounds lighter and ten ears younger.
Perhaps Manhattan wasn’t as much a shithole as I had made it out to be.
