Episode 1, part 2: The Automatic Flush

Amidst our travels, I found myself in a stall at Washington Dulles Airport. The thing itself was rather unremarkable, but the man who occupied it before me had made me nervous (something about his funny grin as he let himself out and walked past; it was a sort-of, “wait till you see what I did” look), so I naturally decided to use a seat cover; I pulled one of the sheets of paper from the holder on the wall and found myself hoping that such a thin (and, might I add, obviously permeable) barrier could stand between me and the evils below. Irrational or not, I applied the cover and turned to unbutton my pants. Woooshhhh, went the, apparently, hyper-sensitive, automatic flush of the toilet. I acted quickly, holding the paper barrier in place, lest it be sucked down, forcing me to reapply (I did have to use the bathroom, if you’ll recall; it’s not as if I just went in looking for comedic fodder…).

With the flush cycle over and disaster averted, I went back to the business at hand (unbuttoning my pants, you’ll remember): whoooshhh. I made a wild stab at the cover but missed. Crap. (Be wise to realize, “crap” was my verbal expression, not my action: I have better bowel control than that. See what I did there.) Anywho, I replaced the seat cover with a fresh one and turned my attention toward my zipper: whooooshhh. I fleetingly considered the silly thought that I might be an unwitting participant of “Candid Camera”, my movements tracked by an unseen assailant, grinning and brandishing a remote control. I quickly dismissed the thought and reached for another seat cover, hoping that privacy laws and decency standards still held. Either way, my pants were now completely undone and hovering perilously, making my task more difficult than I’d hoped, but, waddling and twisting, I put a third cover in place, turned quickly and began my descent to the seat. Wooooooosshhhhh. “Nooooooooo!” Already too low to stand back up, I thudded onto the now-bare toilet as the middle of the flush cycle churned toilet water unto my bare bottom. I distinctly heard the sensor murmur, “Check, and… mate”.

As I finished my business and considered the fine for destruction of airport property, I ultimately decided that, all things considered, too many flushes was far superior to too few (as in none: I’m sure you’ve seen the aftermath of zero flushes of a public commode…). Satisfied that I needn’t take revenge on the inanimate object, I stood up and waited for the whoosh: none came. I turned to leave…still nothing. Exiting the stall, the whoosh curiously absent, I wondered if I’d soon see myself on TV. Ahhh, technology.

Join us tomorrow for “The Airport Bathroom 3: The Mystery of the Clogged Toilets”.