My habits have forever been at the mercy of one commander: my bladder. Widely recognized as the smallest and weakest among other bladders, it has endured a lifetime of teasing and stress from its sworn enemy: liquids. Yesterday, with my mind as its only ensign, my bladder and I were to face an epic struggle against our foe.
Our mission was to find the seemingly hidden facilities in various transportation stations. The battlefield, MTA public restrooms, was our focus. It was dark; it was daunting; it was the New York City subway system. As an urgent and frequent user of both the subway and the toilet, my bladder could not be at peace with my mind before I familiarized myself with the facilities in the subway.
Like a proper warrior, or perhaps just a mediocre Boy Scout, I armed myself with a bottle of hand sanitizer and set off.
The platforms at my first stop buzzed with activity. After climbing the stairs out of the lowest level of the Jackson Heights station, I found that the bathrooms were conveniently located near the top step. While the men's room was tagged "Out of Order," the women's room was open. I entered. The stench was overbearing, and I struggled to hold my breath as I took in my surroundings. The soap dispenser was barren; a neglected toilet brush was perched behind a half-filled "Property of New York" trash bin. A lone wrapper sat next to the leaky faucet that, upon further investigation, was found to produce both hot and cold water. I pushed on the door leading into the single stall only to find that it was locked. I stopped and prepared to form a line when I noticed that there was more than one set of feet under the door. A deep voice muttered incoherent phrases. Something was fishy, and it wasn't just the odor.
I dashed out discreetly and waited for both parties to exit. When I entered again, my hand on the door met little resistance. I bravely peered into the unknown and, seeing no threats, slid into the stall. I was thoroughly disappointed; there is no toilet paper.
Unhappily, my bladder and I boarded the number 7 train to our next site: Grand Central Station. The facilities were easy to locate, but I was harshly greeted with abrubt "Out of Order" signs and, to my dismay, both rooms were of unspecified gender. One door was propped open; inside was an empty paper towel dispenser, piles of dead leaves, an overflowing wastebasket, a broom resting against a wall, and the bitter smell of ammonia.
Undaunted, we continued on to Times Square station. We wandered around, lost in the vast subterranean station. My neck craned in the attempt to locate a sign, an arrow, anything that would direct us. Thinking I was short on luck, I bowed my head- and there it is. A sign listing the hours of the public of restroom signaled us to our destination.
We were met by Tom Drake, restroom attendant extraordinaire, who introduced us to Boston Properties, the company that owns the facilities. Tom informed me that I was patron number 134 that day and buzzed me into stall number 4, a stall reserved for the disabled.
Inside, I found a "help" button, fully stocked toilet paper, soap dispensers, and a purse hook. Just when I thought that all of my problems have been solved, that I had found true lavatory love, an empty paper towel rack entered my line of sight. I jerked around, looking for a reason, only to find that there in the sink were the fresh remnants of a commuter's breakfast.
Devastated, I walked to the door, encountering graffiti that clearly promoted unspeakable acts. With the Times Square battle lost, and my dreams crushed, I took my bladder and waddled off to Union Square.
The brisk smell of chlorine made the Union Square bathrooms seem promising. The walls were graffiti free, the three toilets and two sinks were in working order, and the baby changing station was stable. The spacious room was free of clutter. But to my surprise, this perfectly clean restroom was also barren of supplies. Alas, all hope for finding the perfect MTA restroom was lost.
On my return trip aboard the N train, I realized that, even though the perfect bathroom was not found, my bladder and I achieved success. We had familiarized ourselves with New York's subway restrooms.
Feeds