I stomp the snow off my boots in the lobby of the University of Pittsburgh’s law school. As usual, the cold has triggered my bladder and I search for the nearest restroom. And somewhere to get a cup of coffee
This is my fifth year working with first-year law students in a client simulation where I portray a woman who wants to sue her neighbor. I get a kick out of it, and I appreciate the generous compensation.
The newly renovated lobby is bright and stark; low-slung Swedish tables and chairs scattered over laminate floors. I found the bathroom sign and walked quickly, holding my thighs together in an attempt to avoid the plague of middle-aged women.
I am surprised by the weight of the thick cherry wood door and step into a small anteroom with chairs and a vanity. The tile is neutral but expensive and I whistle under my breath at the pretty penny the university has spent to impress.
I push the second door and enter the bathroom – pricey tile, granite sinks and the faint aroma of roses.
Over one of the sinks a tall woman hunches in a trench coat. Sprigs of wiry gray hair poke out from beneath a wool hat. She wears sweatpants and what appear to be several sweaters layered upon one another.
Her knee rests on the granite counter and a bare foot is positioned under a stream of water. She scrubs it with a soapy paper towel. I pause, imperceptibly I hope, and divert my eyes as I duck into the first stall. But not before I notice a beat-up suitcase and a duffel bag on the floor behind her.
I sit on the toilet, fully dressed, my bladder’s demands silenced by what I've witnessed. I listen as she pads in bare feet to the paper towel dispenser. Bzzzzz. Rip. Soft footsteps back to the sink. Whirrrr. I imagine a dollop of soap foam, like whipped cream, atop the paper towel. The water stream stops as she dampens it and works in the soap.
I had been pleased to be a few minutes early, but I imagine washing my hands in the sink next to her and remain on my perch. A cup of coffee isn't worth the cost. I will do without.
I peek through the crack of the stall, watch her dry the foot on the counter, put on a fresh sock, reach to the floor for a beat up boot. She ties the laces.
I exhale. She'll be gone soon. I wait for sounds of a sign - the zip of the duffle bag, the click of suitcase wheels on the tile. Instead it is quiet. Then the water begins to run again. I position myself to see through the sliver between the door and frame. She stoops over the sink, scrubbing the other foot.
Are you kidding me? The devil on my shoulder hisses.
She is washing her feet in a public restroom, the angel on the other one counters. You're about to make a couple hundred dollars for two hours of work.
By now my bladder has grown impatient. Hopefully the water from the sink will cover the sound. What kind of lunatic sits on the toilet, fully dressed for 5 minutes and then decides to pee?
I finish my business and peek out again. She is still scrubbing. I pull out my phone and check in on Facebook. I am tempted to post about my current situation, but what would I say?
I look at my emails. I consider a Groupon for a spring riverboat cruise and update a client on a blog I'm writing for her. I delete the rest. I click on some of the stories Google has suggested. Anything to distract myself from the horror occurring outside the safe zone I've created in my stall.
You should report her, the devil whispers.
For what? asks the angel. Finding a clean place to wash her feet before she heads back out into the snow?
An image of Jesus pops into my mind. I see him washing the feet of the poor, the sick.
I'm no Jesus.
She doesn't give a shit about you, the devil spits.
For once, he's right, the angel agrees.
What if she asks for money? I argue.
Tell her you have no cash like you always do with homeless people, the devil grins.
My legs are cold now. My pants still around my ankles. But I am afraid to stand up. I don't want the automatic toilet to flush and give me away.
She doesn't give a shit about you, the devil reminds me.
Finally, the suitcase wheels clatter through the grout. I exhale again and wait until I hear the soft click of the door, then pull up my pants and exit the stall. The toilet flushes behind me.
I avoid my eyes in the mirror as I wash my hands.
I am not proud.
I am not ashamed.
I am nothing.
I wave my hands beneath the towel dispenser, wad the damp paper into a ball before I toss it in the garbage and head to the elevator.
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