Some things should come naturally to people, simply because we are all members of the human race, linked by Jungian archetypes and genetically inherited instincts and the unconscious global knowledge of things. We all get lint in our navels, we all cried at Old Yeller, and we should all understand the appropriate utilization of public bathroom stalls.

There is a five shooter on the second floor of the Place of Toil and Labor – four normal stalls and a Double-Wide Super Deluxe on the end designated as a handicapped stall. Now, before I go any further, kudos to the architect who understood that proper design of a public restroom mandates an odd number of stalls and, for the guys, an odd number of urinals. (I’m assuming there are no urinals in the Ladies’ – if there are then I have been sorely misled about a few of the anatomical fundamentals. But I digress.) Let’s face it, when Big Nature calls the last thing anyone wants is an audience to this most private of endeavors. Also, speaking solely for myself and no one else, I prefer a little extra space for olfactory and auditory reasons as well. Not that ol’ El Raymundo doesn’t maintain decorum at all times, but regretfully the same cannot be said of everyone.

Today, after a pleasant lunch at Pot Belly’s in Reston with Boris, I was hit with the mid-afternoon post-lunch urge while explaining the vagaries and mathematics of f-stops, aperture, and shutter speed to Jeff Fayne over IM. Somewhere around “8.0 allows ½ the light of 5.6 and requires a 2x faster shutter speed than 5.6 in order to achieve the same exposure – notwithstanding the intricacies of variations in depth of field and hyperfocal distance…” the kids started knocking.

“Take us to the pool, El Raymundo!” they hollered.

An insufferable man we called Gilligan once said something wise: “Never deny the colon.” I IM’d Jeff that I’d return momentarily and moseyed on past Cubicle Canyon, down the hall and to the head. I pushed the door open and then, as is my habit, glanced in the mirror behind the washbasins to check for feet and thus strategize my stall selection. Ideally the joint would be devoid of wingtips and sneakers, but alas, the men of the second floor seem to be a fibrous bunch and the stalls are rarely empty. The next best option would be some combination of any two stalls in a 1-3-5 progression of major thirds. If 1 and 3 were occupied I could take the empty 5 and complete the triad. Likewise if 1 and 5 were occupied I could take the 3. But alas, it was not to be.

Of the five stalls, two were occupied. Not in a series of major thirds either, mind you, but in a 2-4 minor third progression that obliterated any possibility of my having that blessed porcelain-and-tile no-man’s land between myself and the nearest supplicant. Oh the humanity!

Regrettably, there is only one course of action in a situation like this and that is retreat. I spun quickly, catching the door before it closed behind me, and made the Long March back to my cube. I explained the situation to Jeff. Jeff and I agreed that both men should be dragged from their stalls and propped against a brick wall in a South American courtyard, and shot. Sic semper tyrannis bathroomis.