A chance to visit with a dear cousin the other day brightened up an otherwise sad afternoon. After discovering closed signs on our first two options for a cup of coffee (“You’re Baptist,” she said, “so we can’t go to a bar.”) we landed at a franchise coffee place whose products I find a bit pretentious and rather overpriced, but convenient. Their business policies are so laced with Anti-American political correctness that I wasn’t sure if I could safely enter the place, because I am sure on their secret no-entry list of intolerant, unwoke, heterosexual conservative Christian males.
But we do dangerous things for the ones we love, and besides, I could have taken any soy-boy security guard they had on the premises, since such types would have to check their weapons and testosterone at the door, and could likely be handled with a harsh word and a Bible verse or two if need be.
No alarm sounded a warning that I was a Southern male, no machine testing one’s love of the Constitution began flashing, and there were no signs of danger, so we sat down and had a lovely visit. There was even a policeman inside, which made me feel even better, since some of the stores in this particular chain have banned police officers as being scary.
I opted for a plain, ordinary, straight black coffee, since that’s what I drink. My cousin had something that was reminiscent of a melted banana pudding, but she liked it and that’s all that matters. The place where they made the coffee and coffee-drinks was an assembly line of devices and spices that I could not fathom, but again, if you like spiced-latte-cappa-halfa-mocha-chewbacca-coffee drinks, that’s your right. Creation of both of our drinks required a production worthy of the latest Hollywood action adventure movie.
I am fairly sure the coffee server wrinkled her nose in disdain at my order. I’m positive the person handing out the drinks at the other end of the counter wondered what kind of inbred, provincial, Southern hick had gotten lost and wandered into her palace. I’m fairly sure at least two or three of the other patrons were worried I might bite them or give them a disease or something, despite the fact I was wearing my usual Sunday attire and I did not overtly smell of goats, or nor did I have a possum or a pistol in my pocket. At least not right that very moment. Maybe.
I won’t bore you with the details of our visit, which was lovely, or the coffee, which was good but nothing to write home about. As we made ready to depart, I decided I’d better pay a quick visit to the men’s room, since I had miles to go before home, and I am of a certain age.
Therein lyeth the problem, or problems.
There was not a men’s room. There was not a ladies room. There were only “everybody” rooms. Thankfully both were handicapped accessible, but that’s neither here nor there.
In an age where gender confusion is the latest fashion craze, I found myself genuinely confused. Not about my gender, but about where I could go.
I honestly evaluated whether or not the woods beside the parking lot offered sufficient privacy. They didn’t.
Not to share too much information, but you shouldn’t be shocked. I am a man, I live in the country, in an isolated place. Do the math. Every tree can be a restroom, and in addition to reducing wastewater, the outside habit can help deter livestock raiding coyotes and bobcats.
I crossed my fingers and knocked on a door. When no one answered I entered. There was no indication of whether I’d chosen the lady or the tiger, if you will pardon the reference (you need to read more books if you don’t get it) but either door could have been disastrous for a man brought up with manners. At least I didn’t have to worry about surprised by another patron (of either sex) since the room was, if you’ll pardon an outhouse reference, a single-holer.
Once inside, I realized that I had indeed drifted into some alternate universe.
There were no paper towels, only a hand dryer likely packed full of the newest variants of Covid. There was a box on the wall with biohazard markings on it, where drug addicts could put their used needles. It was right next to the diaper changing station, which has become a ubiquitous part of every modern restroom (an idea I applaud, since dads should change diapers, too). I’m not sure what was supposed to stop addicts from setting up their needles on the diaper changing table.
The motion-activated toilet was stingy as Scrooge when it came to water, even when I hit it twice with my walking stick. On the other hand, the faucets didn’t want to turn off, so any potential for saving the planet one flush at a time was negated. At least I could be assured that my hands would be clean when global warming finally destroys mankind.
The next day, I remembered that I was out of office-coffee. Facing a longer and more complicated Monday than usual, I swung into one of my go-to suppliers, Jerry’s Sandwich Shop. All three of the people behind the counter greeted me by name. Several of the other customers did as well. Miss Ramona and Miss Emily gave me a hug.
There was absolutely no hint of pumpkin spice in the air, just the smell of bacon and eggs and early burgers and yes, coffee.
I didn’t have time to tarry, sadly, but as I was leaving I had to smile as I headed out the back door. The bathrooms were decidedly men’s and ladies, and clearly marked.
I’m happy for folks who enjoy living in cities, but I’m happier that we fled such many years ago. I’ll take a small town or better still, no town at all any day of the week, as opposed to seeing more cars at a stoplight than one would often find in the parking lot of a thriving church on a Sunday morning in the country.
To those who like crowded living where the sunset comes early because of haze and tall buildings, you can have it. I want to spend my life in places where there aren’t needle boxes in restaurants, there’s no confusion about bathrooms, and the coffee is just coffee, without a cause.
=-30-
