Thursday, May 08, 2003
Copyright © Las Vegas Mercury

Goldberg: Zip it

By Tod Goldberg

There are few havens safer for a man than the restroom inside a steakhouse. You walk in and greet the gentleman sitting at the sink surrounded by colognes, mints and antiseptic combs. You think about how you'll try to avoid his gaze on the way back out so you can simply wash your hands without his assistance, thus avoiding the need to tip him for a service you'd normally skip anyway. You enter the stall to do your business (because, in a steakhouse, it's all about the stall--who needs a urinal when you can sit down in luxury?) and you ponder the state of your affairs, or the state of your date if you're on one, or merely the state of your gut if you're married and dining on rich food with your spouse. You get up, move slightly to allow the laser eye to understand that flushing should commence, and then exit the stall to engage in the aforementioned dance of tippage with the sink jockey.

Unless, of course, you're me and you exit the stall in time to see the sink jockey setting up his "gone for 15 minutes/on break" sign (and if you work in a bathroom, where do you go for a break?). At the same moment, though, an elderly man walking with a cane enters the restroom and crosses my path.

I nod at the elderly man--as men often do when they see each other in the bathroom, thus making the tacit agreement that we are both men, that we both possess human waste and that we won't look at anything unless by sheer accident or bewilderment in size--and make my way to the blessedly attendant-free sink.

I look at myself in the mirror and try to reason with the meal I've just eaten. I tell myself that if I were on the Atkins diet, as I once was to disastrous effects, the meal I'd just ingested would be considered healthy. I think about the fact that Dr. Atkins has recently perished and then I think about ordering dessert to spite him. Mudpie, I decide and then someone taps me on the shoulder.

"Excuse me, son," the elderly man says. "I'm having a bit of a problem with my zipper."

"Pardon me?"

"Can't get my zipper down."

There are a couple of ways I can react. I can pretend I haven't heard him and simply go about my business; I can tell him I'm not going to be part of whatever sick charade he's trying to perpetrate; or I can say, "What seems to be the problem?" and see where that leads me.

"What seems to be the problem?"

"I got arthritis in my hands so bad," he says. "Ate a steak the size of my head and now my fingers are all bloated up."

"Oh. Okay. Well."

"If you could just pull my zipper down for me here and then wait a bit and zip 'er back up, I'd be appreciative."

As a child, I had a recurring nightmare--well, not really a nightmare, but a solid waking fear--that I'd go to the bathroom and not be able to get my zipper back up and that I'd be forced to walk around school all day with my zipper down and Mr. Floppy uh, flopping, or drooping, or whatever. I imagined that Ginny Kearns and Heather Neufer would see it and would throw rocks and garbage at me.

"Sure. No problem." I step around the front of the gentleman and nonchalantly try to tug down his zipper. The problem is I'm a little afraid I might encounter his Mr. Floppy in the process, so I feign like I can't quite get the grip I want. "Let me go at it from the side. Maybe some fabric is caught." I step to my right and take down his fly without actually looking. I move my hand away for fear I'll feel a sudden rush of air or hear a dull thudding sound.

"Release the hounds," the man says and in a few moments I hear the familiar sound of water hitting ice cubes. The problem is, the old guy pisses in fits and starts and I can't prepare myself to go back into battle because he just keeps chatting and pissing, pissing and chatting. This is going to leave me scarred. I'm going to have post-traumatic stress. I can feel it in my bones.

"Little help," he says when he's finished.

"Oh, sure," I say. I make the mistake of looking at my work and see a small circle of drying urine on his white underpants. I think about making a joke, something like "Hey, that looks familiar," but decide levity may not be appreciated here. I take hold of his zipper and yank it up into place.

"Now we're in business," he says. "Thanks so much."

"My pleasure," I say and I walk back to my table.

It's not until after I've finished dessert and have driven home with my wife that I realize I still haven't washed my hands.