The Toilet Man

One thundery Tuesday night in London I received a phone call from my work colleague telling me that ‘everyone’ was going out that night, ‘it is a birthday, you have to go’, she added. It was the last week of the month and my money in my bank account reflected this. No pounds and little pence meant it was looking like I would pass on this night out. Getting paid monthly and as little as I did, usually meant that the week before payday my face was being branded around African TV for donations. Another phone call came and my thirst began to get the better of me. My hands became metal detectors and magnets, thrown into the depths of the crumbs and fluff of the chairs and couches, under the mats and under my bed. The pennies I had in a jar for a rainy day were now being counted. I was never too sure about this saying though, was I saving for an umbrella or a hooded jacket and surely if so, I should be saving for the day before the rainy day so as not to get wet when purchasing these items, in the rain? Anyway that day was now my rainy day. I somehow managed to produce twelve English pounds. With some careful strategic planning I worked out that if we went to the bar with the midweek specials, I could get 4 delicious pints and spread them wisely enough throughout the evening not to have my plan rumbled.

So two pounds on my oyster card which would get me a bus ride there and home and with a fool proof plan in my head, I was out the door. When I arrived at the bar I had a friend ask me what I was having, first test, ‘I’m alright, stick to your own’. No rounds, it would be detrimental to my plan, as someone would sneak in vodka and red bull and my pockets would be empty. I bought my first drink, and I was enjoying it. Nearing the end I got the nod from the birthday boy, ‘same again Rob?’ Panic set in, I never allowed for a birthday drink, schoolboy error. My tally of four drinks suddenly lost a beverage out of nowhere. ‘You are alright mate, I’ll get you this one, it’s your birthday’ I said squeaking the words out through my gritted teeth. £2.50 a pint, I was now drinking my second, and spacing out the time well, but secretly kicking myself at the mistake I had just made, but still, nobody could tell my game plan. Nearing the end of drink two, and with a great mood building, my bladder began to poke me from the inside and the seal was about to broken. Eagerly anticipating my third drink and the cross over from sober to ‘getting there’, I went to the bathroom and standing adjacent to the urinal I proceeded to pee.

As I was just about empty I could feel two eyes burning a hole in the side of my head. After my buttons were done up, almost like a panther, leaping from the shadows of the trees, out from behind the cubicles, came the toilet attendant or lollipop and perfume trader if you will. Full of chat and armed with paper towels and hand soap he turned the tap on for me, and then pointed at a little plate resting on the sink holding two pound coins. In my experience he was not telling me to take this money, he was asking me to pay for the service he was providing. Now, I was 28 years old at the time. When I was potty trained, I was presumably trained to subsequently wash my hands and dry them and this then grew into a habit and over the years I have perfected these actions. I am, not to sound vain or like I am boasting but, I am brilliant at washing and drying my hands. I have never been let down by this ability. In recent months I have had trouble with my laptop and put it in for repair, I spent close to one hundred pounds for it. Also I had to attend the doctor’s clinic to seek advice which cost me €55 euro. I was not happy paying this but I could not fix my computer nor could I self diagnose, therefore, this money went to good use.

This man had just asked me to give him money for doing something I can clearly do myself. I did not want a lollipop as a cola and strawberry Chuppa Chup would no doubt take from the taste of my beer and I had sufficient quantities of aftershave applied to decline his offer of a good spray. My game plan was finished should I decide to part with a pound for this ludicrous reason. Imagine you are at a concert and the act finishes a song and before you get the chance, someone grabs your hands and starts clapping them together and charges you for this service. Would you pay them? If I went back upstairs a pound light, I would have to sit there for the rest of the night with the same warm drink I had bought about half an hour previous. If I didn’t ‘pay’ him, I would not be able to come back to the bathroom as the guilt would be too much for me to cope with. Is it even a job? I had to think quickly. ‘I have no change man’, why did I say man, did I turn into Eddie Murphy all of a sudden or was I confirming his gender? This did not deter him, however. He had bags of change. ‘What change do you need Brutha?’ he asked, clearly overseeing the fact that I was ginger and in no possible way his Brutha or brother, or anywhere near his family tree. I explained then that I only had a fifty and said I would ‘pay’ him the next time I had to use the toilets. To this he looked distraught, like he had heard it before and been let down by it also. I avoided eye contact at all costs and sheepishly left the bathrooms. Drinking my third pint felt so good but peeing down the side street felt wrong. Financial planning has never been my strong point but surely no one would have accounted for this expense. I can wash my own hands!!!!!!!