Monday, October 08, 2001

Todd

He asked me why I was sitting inside on such a lovely night. "I enjoy the music," I said, "and this comfortable sofa."

I did not add that the main reason I’d chosen this particular seat — indoors when the tables outside were packed with college cuties — was the vantage point it afforded me, an unimpeded view of him behind the counter, making exotic coffee drinks and generally looking just effortlessly fabulous.

"And," I added, "I really enjoy being asked about the occupancy status of the bathroom every five minutes."

The couch is situated right next to the door of the unisex bathroom, and every potential user of the facilities approaches me with a look and a somewhat sheepish nod that silently inquires, "Is anyone in there?"

I answer either "yes" or "no" aloud and they wait or enter accordingly.

Once inside, they each fiddle with the stubborn lock on the door, as if I — a total stranger, granted, but a total stranger with what I would like to think is a very kind and honest face — as if I would betray them when they were at their most vulnerable and just send the next person to approach me right on in.

For the privilege of observing — Todd, the nametag said. For the privilege of observing Todd, I was the de facto Toilet Sentinel for the evening. It was, at long last, a job for which I was both qualified and available.