Theo Palarie: Falling From Olympus (#Wattys2018)

Friday Seventeenth

FRIDAY SEVENTEENTH

It must be them. The Design Grad's. And after looking around the men's room, I wonder why my brain has never touched on them before. I mean, I've considered the idea of interior designers. Almost always in that moment when I zip my pants down for a white gleaming urinal. But I guess what I'm struggling with is why a design team would bedazzle a public toilet in four-star decorum —when no right minded person would've ordained for the Italian water fixtures to join the classy beige vanity —now breeding bathroom dwelling bacteria.

And, the men's room is not accomodating enough to deserve these bells and whistles, in the first place. It's one of those transient, in between realms that one suffers through for a call of nature, and yet in saying so, here I am; in a piss-less trance set on by the twinkling mosaic and the dedicated booths past the partition in this barely ventilated cube.

I've somehow been hoodwinked by the zip 'n piss hallmarks of instant relief which line the walls, and the way the light just butters across every surface as if every part of this bathroom is waxed daily and disinfected— which is exactly what makes this place the pretentious HGTV sham which should've remained a simple hole in the ground.

I mean, what happened to the conventional Dutch-oven blueprint that we're all used to? Because that would've been way better than this. A space devoid of any beauty would've encouraged us visitors to atleast get to our business allot quicker. Wipe, shake, tap a foot and the rest of it. But this façade, this over conceptualised front, isn't able to ground the anger of the next beguiled gentleman who will eventually be undone by it.

I know this for a fact. The next guy to walk in here will be turned into a germ-fearing beast on entry. He's going to hold his breath through the cloud of digested menu items that taint the air, and proceed to kick open the stalls one after the other in elimination, thinking that doing so will offer a linen fresh result. Kind of like what Josh has been doing for the past minute before he fell into marginally aromatic stall —right in time to let go of his breath. So the point I'm trying to make is this, dear Design Grad's. Wherever you may be. If it's not going to smell good enough for us to touch it, then it's all bullshit;

"A public restroom doesn't have to be this nice." I let slip, under my breath.

"Huh!" Says Josh who then proceeds to kick at the porcelain until there's a flush.

"Does something smell weird to you?" I ask, pitching curiosity around the partition of basins currently dividing the room.

"Woo, Mr Rabbit! Look around. Or it's the weed! You shouldn't have smoked so much." Josh abandons the topic and he circles around the basins. He finally stops to wash his hands behind me: still exposing myself, over a patient urinal.

He and I work together, and he's wearing one of the well crafted suits you can lease your car to purchase –or obtain for free when you sign your soul over– at K.C. Parker. We've manned the salesfloor, here at Rosedene Mall, for a year now. And the nicest thing about a retail scholarship is how exhausting it's bound to be for anyone; well except maybe for Josh who was recently promoted to Head Salesman. It's why he's guarded by a flammable cloud of Hugo Boss cologne —and can gift himself items like the violet tie accentuating his round chin and slick shaven head.

Now I might never see Josh again after today —which is fine by me. I'm about to hand in my resignation and Josh has an oblivious talent of reminding me of what I could have achieved —even while pumping soap out the dispenser.

"No, not that. The other smell that's also outside. It's toxic. You seriously can't smell it?"

Josh shakes his head disagreeably, all while slamming the gleaming lever arm of the Positano faucet. "Listen, I'm going to Doctor Marlin's. If Sharen asks..." He's confident enough to make eye contact even while my zipper's down.