Every so often, a fellow finds himself in a position in which no one anywhere of any persuasion would ever wish to be.
Just the other day, I was in a Metro station, bag-burdened and in a rush. Suddenly the coffee I had drunk made its way through my system and I absolutely had to unload. After struggling to cash my card, I urgently asked where the nearest bathroom was and hurried to it.
Expecting an average, if somewhat dirty public facility, I was intrigued to discover a futuristic space-capable cubicle. I entered and pushed a heat-seeker button labeled "door." It slid closed with a gently ominous hiss.
Slinging my bags on a hook, I took stock of my surroundings. A sign proclaimed, "Push button for toilet seat. I did. The seat slid out from the wall dripping water and smelling faintly of industrial cleanser.
Another sign faced the toilet. This one read, "Time limit: 10 minutes. If amber light begins flashing, exit immediately." Underneath the warning was a Wash-Cycle Indicator.
Better make this quick, I thought.
I didn't have to wait long. Almost as soon as I sat, I was done. To my right was what looked like a run-of-the-mill toilet-paper dispenser. It too featured a heat-activated button. I thumbed it. Nothing. Tried again. Nothing. I kept stabbing the metal, hoping that it was just slow. My eye flicked to the still-dormant evacuation light. How long had I been inside? How much time did I have left?
Despair reared its ugly head.
Fortunately, as a writer I am in perpetual possession of paper. I tore sheets from my notebook and cursing colorfully, began frantically to wipe.
Turns out there's a good reason notebook paper is not marketed as toilet tissue. After a long while of staring at the warning indicator as I tore paper pieces, feeling somewhat chafed and more than a little peeved, I was done. Keeping a weather eye on the light, I washed my hands several times in the automated sink, and finally pressed the escape button.
For all its technological wonder, the computerized commode had one fatal flaw. It needed a human to reload the toilet paper.