I remember my trip to the school bathroom as a gruesome
experience. As soon as I stepped in, I was hit with an overpowering smell that
permeated the air; it was a blend of flatulence, urine and the sharp smell of
Fabuloso multipurpose cleaner. After adjusting my eyes to the dim white light, I
glanced at the once pastel pink walls that were shabby with age and
delinquent children who decided to cover them with their name or a variety of
vulgar words in a thick Sharpie marker or pen. I ignored the girls who were
fluffing their hair and putting makeup on their face in the lackluster vanity
area (which was an array of dirty mirrors above a large sink that was on the
brink of overflowing since some genius
decided to stuff a ball of paper towels in the drain).
When I opened the stall door and locked it, the first thing
I came face to face with was a toilet that had seen better days. The dirty,
white porcelain bowl was marred with some type of rust that seemed like it
would spread the second someone attempted to clean it. Small drops of urine
were sprinkled on the filthy toilet seat, indicating that one of the girls must
have “missed” while doing their business. After looking down, I
immediately noticed the small, square white tiles on the floor that were soiled
with dark, revolting stains that I prayed was dirt and not something else. The
roll of thin toilet paper to my right was dwindling – it may have been enough
for two more people. The stall itself was graffitied by the people who arrived
before me – crude drawings of penises and middle fingers along with smiley faces
and declarations of love adorned the dull white stall. Regardless of the
bathroom looking as though it came out of a horror story, my bladder was ready
to burst. And yet, I paused when I heard the echo of a zipper being pulled down.
I suddenly became painfully aware of all the other sounds in the room: the click-clack
of a girl’s heeled boots, the tinkling noise coming from the stall next to me,
the crinkling, sticky sound of a pad being thrown away – all topped off with the
occasional flush every few seconds. My reluctance to pee was strengthened when
I made eye contact with an unfamiliar girl through the crack in the stall. There
was no privacy. I unlocked the stall, washed my hands for good measure, and
left with a strong resolve. I would wait until I got home.
