I began this experiment nearly two years ago, and as I explained in a reply to a recent comment, did not expect it to go on this long. Originally there were to be 12 columns, a number I enjoy for various reasons, but then this sort of became a habit, and I didn’t want to stop for any specific reason, so I kept going; setting new goals, none especially significant. I made it a year, which was fun, and now this is the 100th column, and I know exactly what I want to write about.
That being said; it isn’t very… monumental. I don’t know why, but I’m driven to tell the full story of the paper towel dispenser at work.
I work in a building built 130 years ago in New York City, that shows its age much in the way I do… it makes oddly unrecognizable sounds, and is always a little too hot or too cold. While it appears surprisingly solid, the building is somewhat immune to cosmetic enhancement, as full cleaning rigs have been scaling the sides for over a year and a half, yet all windows still provide a sepia soft focus view of the world outside. In contrast to the constant change of Manhattan’s landscape, this building has defined its spot since 1894. Its spectacular view of the Brooklyn Bridge, only 10 years its senior, has been seen by nearly five generations of New Yorkers.
The bathrooms, though, are a bit bleak. This is not a complaint, nor a judgement: I was once lucky(?) enough to actually visit the bathroom at CBGB’s: plumbing’s Heart Of Darkness, the very last place one would want to be vulnerable enough to engage in any kind of bathroom engagement. In absolute contrast, the bathroom at work is kept incredibly clean (and is in no way dangerous), it even has a full length mirror, a slap of reality I don’t necessarily require twice a day, but appreciate, from time to time.
The bleakness is mostly in the lighting, florescent tubes of a hue that suggests a drug deal is about to go down in an action movie. The red-shift glow that has been engineered to soften modern versions of this affordable illumination has not yet been added to the bulbs in these fixtures, as evidenced when I look up while washing my hands to see an elderly ex-rodeo clown with deep circles beneath his eyes staring back at me. And then, of course, there is the full length mirror.
In the bathroom, the paper towel dispenser is to the right of the sink. To the left, two urinals, then a wall with a window leading to a 13 story lightwell - two stalls are on that wall. The paper towel dispenser is less than a foot away from the right wall holding the bathroom door (to the right of the door is the full length mirror). Architecture-wise it’s a bit of a pickle, as the person washing their hands must always keep an ear out for someone rushing in too quickly and smashing them into the sink with the open door, but New York is a fast-moving and challenging place to live.
The paper towel dispenser was broken, after efficient service for almost a year to my knowledge without incident. Its design requires the pushing of a vertical angular lever on the front to produce the towels beneath it, a little wedge you have to press, which I noticed that most people accomplished with their right forearm as, of course, their hands were always wet when they needed a paper towel.
My rhythm is a bit more complicated, fueled entirely by my post-COVID Cirque du Soleil acrobatics regarding all situations where public objects must be touched. This is not merely reactionary, but carefully choreographed for each exact space. When I first arrived at this job, I made the mistake of using my ring finger to touch the elevator buttons, then scratched my eye with the same finger because I instinctively avoided using my ever suspicious index finger. Rookie mistake.
In sharp contrast, my work bathroom exit routine is a polished modern dance.
I turn on the water (no qualms here, as anyone turning the water off has no doubt just washed their hands)
soap up my hands
glance in the mirror and remember better days
wait for my watch to tell me that I have not yet allowed myself a full (and overtly luxurious) twenty seconds of hand washing
turn off the water
press the gray lever two times with my right forearm
retrieve the brown paper towel underneath
dry my hands
use that same towel to open the door
use my right foot to hold the door open
transfer the paper towel to my left hand
toss the paper towel into the wastepaper basket beneath the paper towel dispenser
open the bathroom door with my right hand by pressing the middle of the outside of the door just enough to
walk out of the bathroom.
I’m crazy. That’s established. But this reparatory theatre performance is sometimes the height of my workday. And to fully appreciate the experience, one must imagine the sound of the dispenser, a “SHUNK-CASHHONK”. It’s the same sound as the old postage stamp machines, where you put a few quarters in a metal slot and then pressed the metal blade in and pulled out a flat cardboard envelope of postage stamps. You don’t remember that? You’re young? Well, it’s still like that.
In short, the lever got stuck. The plastic wedge was depressed and wouldn’t pop back out. Attempts to manually pull the paper towels from the bottom of the unit were met with the row of sharp metal teeth meant to cut the towels.
Of course, everyone tried to hit it. After three days, I actually kicked it, just once, with the side of my shoe, to no effect. I then limped back to my desk, got my pocketknife from my bag and headed back to the bathroom.
On the top of the unit was a turn-ey latch thing with a slot in it. Using my “can opener” tool, I turned the thing until the unit popped open, then jiggled the wedge until it released, and examined the inner workings.
It was more sophisticated than I thought, with seven white plastic cogs and three metal springs stretching in different directions. I tested it and, satisfied, replaced the covering, closed my pocketknife, and happily washed my hands.
It worked for two days, but by Friday was stuck again.
On Tuesday, it was replaced by a brand new one, of totally different design: black, sleek, no levers to touch - just a gentle tug of the paper and out it comes, pre-perforated. I do not necessarily miss the old one at all.
It was interesting, however, the amount of happiness that fixing it had given me. That I had made it work again.
It seemed that there was wisdom to be learned from this;
that what I should have wanted was a new one, but it had never occurred to me as a possible option;
that I had temporarily restored its function but had not actually repaired it;
that whoever designed the thing with plastic gears knew it would eventually fail (and that “plastic gears” metaphor was perfect for so many situations requiring operational improvement).
The grizzled, leatherfaced rodeo clown in the mirror stared back at me, eyes filled with weary wisdom, shirt too hot, belt too tight, knuckles creaking as he rubbed his hands together.
I offered him a respectful half smile, then took a luxurious full twenty seconds to finish up washing my hands.
Heavens! (Centennial.)