(The following is a story I wrote some twenty years ago. In sorting through some old papers I came across it. I'm not sure where I stored the digital file. But I've always thought fondly of this story, as it represents a test I set for myself to tell an entire tale in the second person. However, it seems particularly apropos for sharing in this day and age. I considered spending the rest of my day searching for the file, but instead decided it would be a more efficient use of my time to transcribe this little wonder anew. There were a few minor tweaks made to the language and phrasing as I went along, and the ending was significantly re-worked and updated for a somewhat more modern workplace. So without further ado, I hope you enjoy this little number. And also, please wash your hands.)
You are standing in the hallway when he walks past. He is a co-worker and you have worked with him before. He is wearing a white dress shirt and a red tie. He is a salesman. He has closed many big deals on a handshake, some using your research. You notice as he enters the men’s room.
You would already be in there if you hadn’t stopped to talk to the sexy new assistant. Her eyes are like saucers brimming with cocoa. You want to put your lips to them and sip gently – But No! There is a different biological imperative at work now. You are in the hallway for a reason. You need to go. You wish you could explain to the cocoa eye assistant why you are walking away, but there is no tactful exit strategy for this situation.
You fret that the red tie salesman will gawk as you enter the restroom. He does not. He is not at the sink, or the mirror, or the urinal either. You are sure that you did not see him leave. You spot his brown dress shoes peaking out beneath the closed door of the far stall. There is no one else in the men’s room. Just you and him. It could only be red tie salesman behind that door. Whatever anxiety you had about revealing your business in there, is quickly replaced by the urging of a more pressing matter.
Your gut grumbles as you duck into the stall nearest to the door. A few rapid and familiar maneuvers later and you are seated. Relief! Your business is underway. You notice a newspaper on the floor. A headline sparks your interest. You pick up the periodical to investigate further. You can always find reading material in this restroom, regardless of time or stall. For a moment you wonder what the red tie salesman is reading. Perhaps he brought his own material. Perhaps not.
The scent of your leavings begins to permeate the stall. You’re gut tells you that you are not ready to depart, but that you may need to wait for your functions to regroup. You give a courtesy flush to wash away the scent. You continue reading the paper. Second later you hear another flush. You hear the rustle of clothing as red tie prepares to depart his stall. His stall door opens with the click clack of the lock being disengaged. The meatal door clangs back shut against the stall. You hear the dress shoes walk across the gray tiles, heading in the direction of the sinks. You wait for the sound of the faucet…
…The sound never comes. You spot his shoes as they pass outside your stall. The men’s room door opens with a "Whoosh" and then bangs shut with a thud as the red tie salesman exits. He didn’t even put up the pretense of pretending to wash his hands like some guys. He never stopped at the sink. There was not even a cursory splash of water or soap.
Will you ever be able to work with this guy again? Every time he hands you a document, you’re going to wonder whether his hands are clean. It will feel to you as if he had wiped his rear with the memo. You will have to wash your hands repeatedly, every time you work together – Not to mention shaking hands. That must be over right! There is not enough hand sanitizer in the world to allay your distress. What other things in common do you touch? Can you get dysentery from walking through the front door? You have heard that both Howie Mandel and Donald Trump don’t like to shake hands. Now you know why.
You have heard statistics – crazy statistics, which say that large portions of the population don’t wash their hands after using a restroom. You never believed it was true, but now you are realizing that it is true. You wish they had a sign in the office bathroom like the ones you see in restaurants which say “All employees must wash hands before leaving the restroom.”
You have another troubling thought. You wonder how many employees actually heed those signs in restaurants. Its not like a sign has any power to make anyone do anything. It’s a suggestion at best, telling you what the management wants, implying that there would be a penalty for noncompliance, if they could ever catch you.
You wish you had lingered a little bit longer with the cocoa eye assistant. You wish you did not know what you know now. How many more are there like him? You shudder at the notion. There are probably a bunch of non-washers on the floor. People are gross. How can you go on living among them, never knowing when the unclean will touch you? But you must go on. You cannot hide from the daily scourges of mundane reality.
You put down the paper and finish your business. At the sink you make sure to scrub hard. You sing “Happy Birthday” twice in your mind while working up a foamy lather. No matter how others shirk their own hygiene, your responsibility is to yourself. You leave the men’s room preoccupied, heading dutifully passed the cocoa eye assistant, back towards your desk. Your desk phone is ringing in the distance.
In the hallway your boss approaches. He wants to congratulate you, “A fine piece of work on that last report you sent me.” His hand begins to rise to shake yours. Is he one of them too? There is no way to know. You cannot risk it. Before his hand raises passed his hip, you nod and raise your hand to wave. “Appreciate it boss. Gotta get this.”
You duck into your office and pick up the phone. The red tie salesman is on the other end of the line. He wants you to stop by his office so he can hand you the specs for a last-minute project. Your hands are dried out from washing. You have not even moisturized yet. There is no way that you want to touch anything that guy has touched lately. You opt for a white lie. “Oh man, sorry, I’m in the middle of something. Can you just send me an email?”
“Okay,” he begrudgingly replies.
“Thanks,” you reply with relief. I’ll get on it right have I finish this other thing.” There is no other thing, but at least you dodged that bullet. Maybe you should start working from home.
