Heeb

Whether it’s number one, number two or some hellacious hybrid thereof, using public restrooms can be, pardon the pun, a real pain in the ass. We’re all used to the comforts of our bathrooms at home—fuzzy toilet seat, your favorite magazine, milk and honey scented hand soap—and there’s nothing that makes us feel dirtier than a fling with an anonymous john. The lavatory is a laboratory for our most primordial fears, whether or not you share Joshua Neuman’s debilitating aversion to germs. In this, Heeb’s Bathroom Bible, Joshua chronicles seven recent calls to duty in New York City and the facilities that facilitated them.

Bathroom: Spring Little Saigon Café, Thursday, 10:09 p.m.

I know that “Employees Must Wash Hands” sign is supposed to put me at ease, but for some reason it has the opposite effect. Is a flimsy cardboard sign the only thing between the chef d’cuisine’s butt and my veggie spring rolls? I mean, I sort of operate under the assumption that hand-washing is somewhere on the Cooking 101 syllabus.

Bathroom: Starbucks, Friday, 3:25 p.m.
Starbucks has a deal with the city where they have to let you use their bathrooms even if you’re not buying coffee. It’s really the least they can do in exchange for parking an urban blight on every corner of every block. I wait on line for twenty minutes with a group of teens from Buffalo before the manager opens the door and finds a junkie lying on the ground with a needle sticking out of his leg. Yet another reason to avoid Starbucks. No joke.

Bathroom: Virgin Megastore, Saturday, 12:39 a.m.
I stop in on my way to a birthday party in Williamsburg. Apparently, the store has instituted a system whereby you have to get a token at the counter in order to use the facilities. I’m not sure what the point is, but for some reason I feel like I’ve passed some kind of test when the clerk hands me the token. And come to think of it, I actually prefer the one-use token to the “bathroom key,” a baton of bacilli forever being handed off en route to a fecal finish line.

Bathroom: Barnes & Noble, Sunday, 5:12 p.m.
Yes, I admit it. A sparkling clean handicapped stall is tempting. There are no handicapped people in sight. Who will ever know? Plus, I’ve got seasonal allergies, which, I have to say, can be crippling at times. I always end up chickening out and opting for a stall of the standard variety, but at a Barnes & Noble, at least the latest hardcover bestseller is along for the ride.

Bathroom: Heeb Headquarters, Monday, 11:05 a.m.
Here’s a tip for how to claim your own private stall at your workplace restroom: When you’re finished, drape toilet paper all over the place. Hang some on the tank. Leave a long piece on the seat dangling precariously close to the ground. Hell, throw some additional crumpled-up pieces onto the floor too. The point is to make it look like all hell broke loose in there. People will instinctively opt for another stall, leaving the one you used just for you.

Bathroom: Penn Station, Tuesday, 12:30 p.m.
Sometimes we can’t escape our animal instincts: like dogs sniffing out patches of grass, in public restrooms we duck into a few stalls before making a selection. Nah, skid marks on that one. The door doesn’t close properly on this one. The last one? Nah, that’s too obvious…. Lord, it’s vile in here. Given the choice between Penn Station and the woods, I’d choose squatting over poison ivy. Better than the contagious itch that lies in wait here.

Bathroom: Bond Street Sushi, Wednesday, 9:28 p.m.
Finally, a must-see WC. It’s got the whole feng shui thing going on—a sparkling full-length mirror, bamboo, the works. Only one itsy bitsy problem: It’s unisex! I’m sitting on the crapper and there’s a woman washing her hands less than three feet away. Total performance anxiety. I’m clenched up like Bobby Brown going through customs. That’s it, I’ve had enough of this. I’m going home.