Another day, another place.  Another cheapskate in some fancy suit that is too stuck up to hand me a dollar after I damn near washed his hands for him.  Yeah, that's right; that's me, the guy that turns on the faucet for you when you need it, who hands you a paper towel when you need drying.  I'm the guy whos mouthwash you steal without a second thought as to the fact that it cost me money to put it there.  Yeah, that's me in the corner, that's me in the spotlight.  I tell ya, if I had any religion, it would have been long lost by now.

I've been doing this thing for fifteen years.  Monday is the train station; Tuesday is a fancy restuarant on 5th Ave during lunch time.  Another day, another place.  I've got places to be seven days a week.  What is time off when you have to bust your ass just to make ends meet?  People are always asking me how I fell into this line of work.  They don't really care; they just want to hear a quick one-liner about how I just happened into it or how it's been in my family for generations.  My dad was a marine.  He'd kill me if he knew what I did for a living.

The truth is that there is little glamour in what I do and even less glamour in how I got started in all this mess.  I was working as a errand boy for a auto parts shop, ferrying this part here and taking orders from this customer over there.  It wasn't a bad gig and it paid alright.  The old man that ran the place was good to me, even if the whole shop did smell like cheap cigar smoke.  One afternoon, I take off for lunch, deciding to hit a cheap chinese takeout place down the street.  They really did have the best wonton soup, even if their health code was a little shady.  I think I ordered some chow mein, but that's asking me to go back and remember quite a bit.  I return to work and the old man has a list of customers that I need to go see.  Fine.

I'm about two thirds through my list, dropping off a water pump to some dickhead mechanic who I never particularly cared for, and that's when it hit me.  Lunch hit me like a gut shot from Tyson in his heyday.  I try my best to manage it, even going so far as to finishing up business with the current customer, but it wasn't long after that that I had to make a dash into an office building and hit the restroom on the first floor.  I'll spare you the details but for the sake of the story, let's just say that it was bad.  I'd finish, get up, wash my hands, and boom, have to go all over again.  I was afraid to leave the place because I never knew when it was going to hit me again.  I must have been in there the better half of the afternoon.  Not always in the stall mind you, but damn close in case something hit.  Hell, I'd been there so long that people started leaving me tips.  I even had repeat customers that day.  And that, I suppose, is how I got started in all this mess.

It's Wednesday which means that I am working the night shift at a martini bar in the east section of town.  The clientele is usually more upper class but down-to-earth, which makes Wednesday one of my favorite nights of the week to work.  The place is pretty respectable and I don't have to do a whole lot of clean-up before I get started.  I have certainly grown to appreciate a clean bathroom.  Tonight starts off like any other, me hauling in my heavy suitcase through congested sidewalk traffic in an effort to barely make it to the bar on time.  A lot of people don't realize it but bathroom attendants don't really have set schedules.  Technically, we're not really employed by any of the places we work at but I try to keep a somewhat strict schedule with myself.  I'd like to think that it adds to the professionalism, though I should be honest with myself in the fact that no one really gives much of a damn.

A lot of people like to pigeon-hole the bathroom attendant: oh, he's all about paper towels.  Sure, paper towels are a major part of what I do, making sure that you leave the bathroom with dry hands, but that's hardly the half of it.  Most people can't comprehend the daily struggle that each attendant goes through; carefully packing his suitcase with the best of the best and always being sure to bring what his regulars enjoy.  Since your location changes from night to night, so does what you pack.  You work seven days a weeK?  You pack your suitcase seven times.  We as bathoom attendants have to stay on the cutting edge of fragrance.  We have to know which colognes are current, which are hot, and which are now passe.  Imagine bringing Brut or Stetson to an urban nightclub.  Now imagine leaving with no tips and starving for the rest of the night.  There is no room for chance in the world of the bathroom attendant.

Great, yet another bastard in a custom tailored suit just left without washing his hands.  Sir, have you no class?  It's not even about the money for me in these situations; it's just gross.  I would pay you a dollar of my own money to come back and wash your damn hands.  Think sanitary!  There are also those people who don't use the paper safety sheets on the toilet when they sit down.  I once heard from another bathroom attendant that one of his regulars caught herpes from sitting on a unprotected bathroom seat.  Did you know that in Canada they don't have paper sheets?  I just find that appalling.  And then you have the pukers.  In the industry, we like to call these people spewers, especially in the nightclub bathroom scene.  Sure, sometimes it's just the occassional food poisoning but most of the folks are just drunk.

Oh. look, it's Jerry.  Hi Jerry, I say.  How's the wife and kids?  It's the same routine with Jerry.  It's Wednesday which means he told his wife that he was working late and plans on porking his secretary after a few drinks.  She's usually here on Wednesdays as well.  Making polite conversation about things you don't really care about is a real bitch.  How's it going tonight, sir?  How about the local sports team?  Great game, huh?  Deep down, I don't really give a damn.  I just want your dollar.  Maybe two if you think I did a good job and you do some touch-up work on your breath with my mints.  I almost want to put a sign out by the dish that just plainly says, "this shit ain't free!"  But that really goes against the professionalism that I strive for.

Not all of the bathroom attendants are the same.  We don't have a union or any standard working practices, which means that there is a very low barrier of entry into the field.  Every one does things their own way, often confusing the patrons in the process.  Well, hey, the guy at the bar two doors down has gum.  Why don't you have any gum?  I don't have any gum because I have mints, but people can't grasp that.  You know, we didn't attend bathroom basic training.  We weren't issued a field kit with everything that we'd need to survive.  Gum doesn't go well with martinis, sir, but he keeps on.  He would like a piece of gum and would I go get something for him.  I try and remain calm by replying that I am unable to leave my station.  He storms off in a huff because I don't have any gum.  He'll tell the manager he says.  What manager?

People take going to the bathroom for granted.  You're there, sitting comfortably at work and you can get up from your desk at any time and go use the bathroom.  I can't.  Imagine having to wait in line while the bathroom attendant is taking a piss.  Taking a piss and making you wait.  Hey grab me a paper towel while you're at it.  Oh, that would be rich.  You know, it's to the point that day in and day out, all I ever see is people going to the bathroom.  So much so that I can't even do it when I get home.  No matter how bad I have to go, it's the last thing I want to do when my shift ends.  There's no joy in it, no relief.  Just a shame, actually.

The manager of the bar just walked in and he is now berating me for being rude to his customers.  He wants me out of here he says.  I try to explain my case to him, saying that I wasn't being rude.  I just don't carry gum.  Well, why not he asks?  The bathroom down the street does.  Christ, not this again.  I pack my suitcase a little bit differently -- better than most, I'd like to think.  Still, that's it.  I'm done here, he says.  I have five minutes.  Five minutes is a little unreasonable to pack up all this stuff, I say.  Fine, ten, but you're out and I never want you back.  It's sad in a way, but maybe it's just my life trying to tell me something.  I start packing up my cologne, slowly, but then I stop.  What the hell am I doing?  Is it all really worth it?  No, I decide, it's not.  I'm done here.  I'm really done here.  There are a million other things that I could be doing and handing drunk bastards paper towels isn't one of them.  I stop packing, leaving everything as is; suitcase tucked neatly away under the sink.  I really am done here, so I leave, but not without washing my hands first.