This afternoon I stopped in at Barnes and Noble, and, having MS, needed to use the restroom.
Three stalls, one of which was accessible. Its door was closed. I peeked under, and saw feet. I settled back to wait. Women came, and women went and still I waited. Eventually no one else was in the restroom except me and the silent person in the large stall. There were no sounds of movement, no sounds of anything happening whatsoever. I peeked again. Feet were still there. I waited a little longer. I thought about the time I waited for a lady to finish nursing her baby in the large stall— but at least the baby made slurping noises that I recognized. I thought about how someone could have a stroke, or die, in a restroom stall and no one would know.
So finally I said, “Excuse me, are you all right in there?”
A perfectly composed voice said, “Yes.”
I waited a beat, then said, “Do you think you’ll be much longer?”
“Why, do you have children?”
“No, but I have a wheelchair.”
“Ok, hang on, I’m just texting with my daughter who left for New York two weeks ago…”
Ick, I thought. Texting on the toilet. Texting on the only accessible toilet. And it’s not like anyone would bat an eye if you texted in public right in the middle of Barnes and Noble.