The Bathroom Talker

This is almost, but not quite, a tale for the Ear Job series of posts. But no, this is a tale of… let’s call it social maladjustment. Someone else’s. Or mine. Or both.

The first words exchanged between this guy at work and me were simple, even innocent: “I said, where d’ya get your hair cut?”

But the context for these words was not simple. They were uttered by him, to me, and they were his third or fourth attempt to get a response out of me. And they were uttered — as were all the previous attempts, one after another, in the space of about a minute — as we stood at adjacent urinals in the men’s room.

Now, as I mentioned the other day, it takes a pretty good shove to push me into squeamishness territory. But for some reason, it always happens when someone tries to talk to me in the bathroom. The Missus will not interrupt a phone call when concurrently paged by Nature — she’ll take the phone in there with her — but I’ll pace and jump around, legs crossed, scaring the pets, and responding in muffled monosyllables (“Yeah… Uh-huh… That right?… Sure… You bet!…”) until I can finally put the damn thing down and scamper to the last door on the right at the end of the hall.

And in person it’s always creepier. Especially when it’s this Bathroom Talker (henceforth the BT).

What he looks like doesn’t matter. Suffice it to say his demeanor isn’t the kind to make people approach him in hopes of striking up a conversation.

So anyway, I’m standing there doing my private business and am suddenly conscious that a voice is coming from my left, and because the men’s room is otherwise unoccupied I must assume the voice’s words are meant for me.

Of course, I hadn’t heard them.

In the first place, all-tile bathrooms aren’t a good locale for hearing-aided hearing. You’ve got the original sound of the voice, but there are also all kinds of echoes bouncing around off the walls and floor, adding to the confusion of suddenly finding yourself talked to at a moment when you’re most, um, with yourself so to speak.

And in the second place, there’s the matter of the BT’s voice. It’s fairly deep (the frequency curve on my audiograms tends to favor higher-pitched voices). Furthermore, the BT barely moves his lips when he speaks, instead speaking through pursed lips — I think he keeps his teeth clenched or something — and facial hair.

So all the time his voice had been seeking my attention, all I could hear was on the order of Airyouette aircup. Until he finally said, “I said, airyouette aircup?” I still couldn’t quite make out the second part, but I knew the first phrase by heart, all right (I hear it all the time). So I turned my mind in the direction of figuring out whatever the hell he’d just said — or was it asked?

At this time I’d had my job for a couple of years, maybe. The BT and I work on the same floor of the building, and I’d noticed that he didn’t seem to have a “crowd” of any sort. People who stepped into his office lingered for a minute — however long it took them to complete their transaction — and then scurried away ASAP. But my work and his never intersect (thank God for small favors), and I don’t like to gossip about people I’ve never met (people I’ve met, sure; none of you are safe).

So we’d never talked at all, and I wasn’t inclined to initiate the conversation myself. Furthermore, his first topic of conversation wasn’t a typical, innocent some-weather-huh? small-talk gambit, but a grooming question.

Startled, I told him the name of my barber. I zipped up and hurried to the sink. He followed.

“WHERE’S THAT?” he asked.

I told him.

“DO YOU EVER GO TO [other barbershop]?”

No, I said. I go to the barbershop I just told you.

“OH. I THOUGHT YOU MIGHT GO TO [other barbershop].”

Weak smile on my part. No. Hasty exit.

For the next, oh, maybe ten years, I avoided him when possible. Why? Because my hair was the only thing he ever talked about. And always it required several attempts before I heard him. And most often, I was a captive audience in the men’s room. (Once or twice he even tried, I think, to talk to me through the wall of a stall. But I wouldn’t answer — because, of course, I “didn’t know” he was talking to me.) Eventually, he’d always ramp up the volume to the point where I couldn’t ignore him: “YOU STILL GOING TO THAT BARBER?” or “WHAT BARBER WAS THAT?” or “WHERE DID YOU SAY YOU GET YOUR HAIR CUT?” or — creepiest of all — “YOU EVER THINK OF GROWING YOUR HAIR LONGER?”

Finally, utterly creeped out, I started making inquiries (as the phrase goes). It turned out that the BT had quite a reputation; he creeped everybody out — men and women both.  (Which at least reassured me that I’m not crazy.)

Anyway, last year there came the breaking point.

See, his other favorite stalking ground — because he can corner women there as well as men — is the coffee machine on our floor. He seems to make coffee eight or ten times a day. (When I walk past his current office, and he’s got a sign on the counter which says “Back in a few minutes,” I cringe because odds are pretty good I will at least have to nod at him as I hurry by.)

So about a year ago, I was at the coffee station getting hot water for a cup of tea when he was suddenly there alongside me. My senses were at high alert, but engaged mostly in a search for the nearest exit. There was the voice. I thought I caught the word “air” and so I had a pretty good idea what the topic of conversation was, but I opted for rudeness of a sort. Well, not really of a sort. I ignored him.

Which finally broke his composure: “WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM?” he demanded. “ARE YOU DEAF OR SOMETHING?”

Ooooooh, the satisfaction of telling him: “What do you think these things on my ears are? YES, I’M DEAF.”

Chastened — ha ha! — he said, meekly, something which I believe was, “Oh. I didn’t know.”

Alas, that didn’t solve my problem. Because now he’s got a new variety of topics to assail me with: “IS YOUR HEARING GETTIN’ ANY BETTER?” “WHERE DO YOU GET YOUR HEARING AIDS?” And — my favorite — “DO YOU WEAR YOUR HEARING AIDS WHEN YOU GET YOUR HAIR CUT?” Which actually isn’t a bad question (the answer is no), but coming from him just ramps up my anxiety several more notches.

So my days go. Work. Go for tea (unless the BT will be back in a few minutes, in which case I first check the corridor where the coffee station is located, turning around if necessary and waiting a few minutes before trying again). Work some more. When The Urge strikes, virtually tiptoeing past his office to the men’s room…

Hoping, always hoping — and hating, hating myself for hoping — that a hungry layoff will scoop him up in its net. Thinking to myself, He may be a creep, but I bet he’s never wanted me gone.

And with every flush of the toilet or urinal, washing away just a smidgen of self-respect.

Note (added a few hours later): The above is a heavily edited version of this post. I don’t know if the BT is irredeemably creepy; he certainly has no friends that I know of. In its earlier form, the post was way too heavy-handed — leaned way too far in the direction of ridicule. It’s bad enough to have to confess publicly that I am rude. To think that in addition I might be hurting somebody, even someone for whom I feel nothing but antipathy… It was just too much.