Coffee-shop washroom

It would be different if there were paper-towels. You simply grab a handful, wipe off the excess, roll them into a ball, do a three-point shot into the receptacle and move on. These darn automatic hand dryers force you to stand in one spot, rubbing your hands together until layers of skin are removed. Everyone knows that this method of drying your hands is about as effective as drying your hair with a ceiling fan, or drying your dinner dishes by waving them out the kitchen window, hoping to catch a breeze.

So, after I washed my hands with a combination of cold water coming out of the hot water tap and the half a drop of liquid soap I was lucky to squeeze out of the dispenser, the drying process began.

After a long minute, my hands were still wet, even though I followed the complicated rubbing instructions printed on the dryer to a "T". At that point, there was a line up for the hand dryer which included a mean looking truck driver with devil tattoos and dripping hands, ready to clean the bathroom floor with my face.

So, I hurried from the coffee-shop washroom and headed toward the counter, doing the best I could to dry my hands on my pants. I ordered, and soon the teen-aged server, who clearly didn't want to be there, brought me a coffee and a jelly donut, and I handed her a handful of change.
Part of my job as a writer involves getting out into the real world to experience all that life has to offer. In other words, I drive around town aimlessly, taking a coffee break about once an hour. And since coffee goes through me like a speeding bullet goes through a Ritz cracker, I schedule a washroom break about once an hour as well.

I quickly made my way toward the exit, and in Houdini-like fashion, made a napkin dispenser disappear under my jacket. Although public washrooms can be somewhat scary from time to time, I have weeded out the bad ones through trial and many errors, and found a few that work for me, when they are in working order.

Like the other day, I visited a certain popular coffee shop to use the washroom, (and get another coffee to carry me through the next hour of grueling aimless driving), and I came upon a serious situation. One of the hand dryers was plastered with an out-of-order sign.

She then made a face similar to that of someone who just squeezed a slug, and I realized that I had been tossing the change around in my wet hands. Knowing where I had just come from, she obviously wasn't pleased to be receiving moist money.

Of course I realized this too late, and was already in the process of making my bladder gladder, so I did a quick inventory with a glance around the room. I counted two toilets, three urinals, two sinks, three customers and only one remaining hand dryer.

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