Shirley Alexander of Jamaica, NY, retired from the postal service after a 33 year career as manager of public relations. She's still works for the postal service as an arbitration advocate consultant. She also currently assists in Assemblywoman Barbara Clark's social services organization.
MS. TOILET ATTENDANT
by
Shirley A. Alexander (copyright 1997 All Rights Reserved)
The toilet attendant at Bruno's is a very prim and proper
matriarch about 55 years of age. Her hair, streaked with a few
strands of gray, is swept high on the crown of her head exposing
the facial bone structure that seems etched by a fine artist.
Her skin is burnished in the recessed shadowy portions of her
face but the outstanding, or highlighted, parts appear
copper-toned. Not only is her hair piled high, but her carriage
is upright, her neck straight, not merely suggesting pride,
demanding respect.
She was very tired, having worked all week. She had
cooked and cleaned for her family as well. Clearly, her physical
state was no one's business and it was beneath her to offer less
service to the women here simply because she was tired. Wearing
a peach colored uniform that matched the marbled walls of the
Ladies Room, she acted as if cleaning the toilets and showing
the women vacant stalls was a most prestigious job.
"Have some sweet smelling lotion," she said to the
guest, "just a drop is sufficient and it makes you feel ever so
good. Just pamper your hands, my dear. When I want to feel good,
I pamper myself. I just massage my hands gently with this
smooth, rose-smelling lotion. Try it and see what I'm talking
about."
The guest reached into her bag and placed a dollar in
the plate; under normal circum- stances, she would have given
the same fifty cents she was accustomed to putting in the
collection plate at church, but this lady was so personable,
more like a friend, that fifty cents just would not do. After
all, this woman had pointed her in the direction of an empty
stall, given her a towel as soon as she approached the sink,
adjusted her skirt so that her slip didn't show. Yes, she'd
earned that extra fifty cents.
The next guest, noting the dollar, did not dare leave
less so made the same contribution. Don't get the wrong idea,
Ms. Toilet Attendant, (this prim lady deserved a title) had not
attempted to hustle tips, nor had she begged the way many in her
job did. She didn't belong in a Ladies' Room, but then again,
maybe she did. Well, if she belonged here, she'd carry out her
duties in a manner that took the position to a new level. While
one would not rush to submit a resume for 'Toilet Attendant,'
one would say that this woman brought a decided dignity to the
performance of tasks considered menial. She exuded such warmth
and enthusiasm it was almost contagious. This woman made this
menial job seem important.
"Honey, let me stitch that tear in your hem. One
stitch will do the trick. Don't you just hate when you catch
your heel in your hem? I have a similar gown and I have the same
problem."
"Oh, thank you, Miss," said the guest thinking that
she shouldn't have called her 'Miss'. Perhaps she should have
said 'Ms. Toilet Attendant' but no one is called 'Ms. Toilet
Attendant'. She smiled as she left thinking she'd never before
respected anyone in such a lowly position. There was a first for
everything.
"May I be of assistance young lady? It's no trouble at
all. There's a wisp of hair slightly out of place and I know
your young man will notice it so just let me fix it for you."
At first the young guest was tempted to ignore this
woman who was only the john cleaner but somehow she was unable
to resist reacting to her kindness. Mike's flirting had so
disgusted and embarrassed her that she had rushed to the Ladies'
Room. This woman seemed to sense she was in need of
understanding. Did the hurt show? This young lady, who was not
in the habit of tipping at all, felt an obligation to show her
appreciation by placing a dollar in the plate. She never gave
anyone anything. Michael never gave her more than his half of
the rent and she worked too hard for her meager salary. She
didn't get any tips in her data entry job so why should she tip
anyone else? But Ms. Toilet Attendant was different: she
deserved the dollar.
"Here! This stall is available! Hurry dear before it's
too late. Let me get you a glass of water to settle your
stomach. Sometimes when I've had one martini too many, my
stomach becomes a little unsettled too. Just take your time
until you feel better. Oh, don't be embarrassed. You can't help
it if your stomach is upset. Have this peppermint, you'll feel
better. Run some cold water on your wrists."
The drunk woman wiped her mouth with the proffered
towel, shuffled over to the plate. Reaching into her purse
without looking or caring, she placed a twenty dollar bill in it.
Soon activity diminished and only a few stragglers
wandered in to take care of their needs, personal or cosmetic.
Then, after a lull, there was a burst of traffic again.
The mother-daughter team came in twice. The mother's
bladder was obviously weakened by age or the influence of a
diuretic. The daughter was very protective of her mom and was
with her each time she came into the rest room.
"Mother allow me to help you. Just take your time...
Daughter, you can use the next stall, I'll take care of mother.
Mother, here's a towel. Be careful of the hot water. Don't burn
yourself."
The daughter placed a sizable tip in the plate on each
occasion to show her appreciation.
Then came the three guests who always went to the
bathroom together. Strange how their personal needs were so
coordinated. They entered booths one, two and three, emptied
their bladders in unison, all sighing with relief at the same
time.
"Now you three young ladies come over here to the
mirrors and repair your make up. It's rather warm and you need
to refresh yourselves. "
They chattered, not really paying attention to the
attendant. They were, however, subliminally aware that each
guest was treated with equal respect. Without a pause in
conversation, they responded with generous tips.
Another lady rushed into the room, holding her knees
together to keep the urine from seeping down. She stopped
suddenly as she reached the stall. She was at the point of no
return. In other words, she was so close to the stall that she
could not move at that particular moment or the pinned up urine
would gush out. The anticipation of being able to finally
relieve herself placed an extra burden on her bladder and
psyche, rendering her temporarily helpless.
"I understand, dear, you just hold on until you are
able to move. When you can, just step into the first booth. It's
empty and just waiting for you. The next time, you excuse
yourself from the conversation a little sooner. You know
something, whenever I'm in a predicament like yours, invariably
someone will say something funny and it takes all of my will not
to have an accident as a result of laughter? Isn't that the
strangest, most uncomfortable feeling?"
When she was finished, the guest dropped a dollar in
the plate, and then, after a slight pause, another one.
The last guest slowly entered the room in obvious
pain. She shouldn't have worn these new shoes while dancing all
evening. She walked slowly, gingerly, navigating so that the
soles of her shoes did not touch the seams in the floor tiles.
"Madam, I understand how you feel. There is nothing
more painful than aching feet, unless it's aching teeth. When
you get home, massage your feet. Lotion them generously, rub
them ever so gently with some of this Aromatic Rose lotion. It's
good for the hands but just as good for the feet. Here, take a
bottle. Once you've massaged them, elevate your feet and just
relax. You'll probably fall asleep and that's the best thing for
you. You deserve it after an evening like this one. You must
learn to be good to yourself; your husband is good to himself.
He won't think twice before he lays down to relax once he gets
home and he'll probably have enough nerve to ask you to get him
a cold beer. I'll bet my bottom dollar on that. Be good to
yourself dear."
The guest was surprised that this woman knew so much
about her. Surely, this lady didn't belong here, directing
traffic in the Ladies' Rest Room. This woman was intelligent,
born for better things. She wondered what qualifications were
needed for toilet attendant? Were you disqualified if you were
intelligent? Were you over-qualified by intelligence, a sense of
decency, and the ability to perceive pain in others? She mulled
over these thoughts as she limped out of the rest room to meet
her waiting husband.
"I met the most interesting woman working in the
Ladies' Room. She was highly intelligent and I'm not sure she
belonged there. She did a fine job. Damn, I didn't give her a
tip."
"Well if she did such a fine job, why wouldn't she
belong there? And if she was so good, why didn't you give her a
tip? Let's get out of here. I can't wait to get home, relax and
have you pour me a nice cold beer."
Ms.Toilet Attendant walked into the handicapped
stall because of its roominess, changed clothes, slipping into a
soft cotton dress that fell perfectly over her ample, but well
proportioned hips. She glanced in the mirror just before walking
out to be sure that she was presentable. As she mingled with the
guests who were ambling out of the catering house, she blended
in and no one would have known she wasn't a guest.
She entered her apartment, kicked off her shoes, sat
at the table to tally her earnings for the day. There was her
salary, eight dollars per hour for five hours, plus tips. Well
$324 for five hours was nothing to turn her nose up at. Hubby
would contribute his pay for the week and there would be food
for the table, carfare for their son as well as a couple hundred
dollars toward his tuition. There would be church tomorrow and
the regular job on Monday. She cared for children on her regular
job. It didn't pay much since her employer, a divorced woman,
was only a second-rate lawyer. Ms.Toilet Attendant's son was
studying to be a lawyer too, but he would be first-rate.
The weekend job really helped make ends meet even more
on the many three-day ones. On a good tipping day, which most of
them were, she made almost as much as she did for the whole week
on her full time job. Strangely, her son was ashamed that she
worked in a rest room. He often told her that when he became a
lawyer, she would never have to work in toilets again. She was
not ashamed because she earned honest money. It was green and
used just like money earned anywhere else.
She sighed and turned on the radio just in time to
hear Martin Luther King Jr. saying, "If you're a street sweeper
be the best...."
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