That'll haunt me even when you're not around

*Heed this warning. The following is a tale so disturbing, it might change your opinion of humanity. It contains some graphic language, possible nudity and adult themes. Yet, it is one that must be shared so I don't have to suffer alone*

Granted, the bathroom stalls in elementary school were hellholes. Narrow. No door. 1/2 ply toilet paper. Somehow the drabness of the tile's color magnified every sound, aiding future frat presidents in the discovery of their fondness for the potty humor that would come to define them while making the shy kid with IBS shiver in shame and start homeschooling the following year.

For those classes of boys with female teachers, this scene took the shape of the classic saloon seauences of old, kitschy Western films. Some of us dealt (baseball) cards, others hooped and hollered. I hope to God no one was drinking anything in there, but there would be no way of knowing. Still others found entertainment in their own style of shootouts in which those peeing at the urinals stretching all the way down to the floor would compete by trying to back the furthest away from the porcelain while still keeping the ammo on target. The fastest would win. The slowest were wet. At least their shoes were anyway.

As you get older, the scene becomes less wild and more like a Kevin Costner Western. Subdued. Quiet. Kind of boring. You just want the time to pass and the experience to end.

The setting is typically nicer, depending on what environments you frequent for business. And business. The stalls are wider. There are doors. The toilet paper is not made out of burlap. Advancements, if such is the word, in bathroom resources have made the restroom trip a little more relaxing. Seat covers more readily available and automatic everything keep things neater and more efficient.
People. It's people that never change.

While on a business trip at a hospital today (which had recently remodeled its facilities), I jotted down an actual mental note about the remarkable feeling of privacy the new stalls seemed to create. Something about the dimensions between the abnormally tall metal walls swallowed the occupant, hiding him in an expanse where even shoes disappeared from sight.

The novelty of said space and seclusion would soon submit itself to the horrors that followed this passing fancy.

One whom I can now only assume to be a frequent flyer of this room of rest entered. Prior to that moment, I held this tiled Taj Mahal as my own, but I could understand its draw. A public water closet that does not appall can qualify as a rare find, so its visitors should expect to share its facilities.

The newcomer sauntered to his own throne room, if you will. In between the U2 and Peter Frampton songs playing overhead (first sampling of mood music I have ever heard in a hospital bathroom) I hear the familiar clicking of iPhone on-screen keys. I would hate to think someone is texting me from the crapper, so I try to extend the courtesy of never communicating from that position as well. But if this guy feels the need to reach out and touch someone with his pants around his ankles, that is his choice.

And he did. Only the someone was himself.

At first, the digital voice carrying over from the other side of the wall appeared to belong to a woman on the other end of a phone call he was making, which I initially thought could be the most ridiculous thing I have ever encountered in a public restroom.

Had I known then what I do now, my God how I would have prayed for a phone call. But nope. It was porn. Good ol' downloaded porn.

How frickin secluded did this guy think these stalls were? How the hell can someone go straight to turning Japanese in a public restroom? Did he overlook the L in that term? At the very least, why not make a concerted effort to ensure you are alone before exercising your loneliness?

Suddenly the once-admirable expanse that provided a comfortable anonymity became a merciless enemy. I had to escape. Making a noise simply to break this pervert's stride yet remaining there would not suffice.

Seconds after my first movement, the commotion ceased. My momentum did not. I reached the counter with furious speed and began my handwashing routine. Thirty seconds, and the nightmare would end.

Then the flush from his stall.

"Hell no," I thought with a panicky, internal vocal tone. "I am not about to come face-to-face with Hr. Jack N. Offenheimer."

I hurriedly reached for the automatic paper towel dispenser.

"For the love of God, dispense!"

The lock clicked. The door swung open. Offenheimer emerged.

He walked not with head hung as the situation demanded, as near as I could tell by way of peripheral vision. Nothing could make this more awkward.

Except...

"Sorry, dude," Offenheimer said with no semblance of the shame his words implied. "Didn't know anyone else was in here."

Damn you, spacious stalls. Damn you, Offenheimer.