Not all men's rooms are the same. But there are a certain set of rules that always set the stage. The following article was recently published in Vol. 4 of Vandalism, a collegiate journal at the University of Idaho.
Social Graces
Sometimes the things that happen in a men's room are better left unsaid. Until they're not.
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"Men among men are somewhere between being caught off-guard and being in the same place for the same reason at the same time." |
A typical urinal measures 18”X24” – ample room to contain a fluid discharge akin to a water balloon with a pinhole in it. Their ceramic borders are always softened and aerodynamic with chrome accents and a basic lever-action handle which has been improved over decades to a non-threatening chrome-plated brass rod extending out the left side of the overhead plumbing, devoid of even the slightest chance of mechanical failure, or in some instances a faultless motion sensor. Sometimes the hardware and sizes vary. The dynamics of the space between each ceramic pit, however, are not as easily defined by geometry or layout.
A woman might envy this fixture if only to be afforded the chance for once to stand and be relieved. But there is more to this scene than a perceived ovation. There are certain unspoken rules in a men’s room, especially where urinals are involved. Looking is not allowed – glances included. Instead, one must focus directly on an imaginary line along the meridian that extends from the exact midpoint of the stance on the floor to the same point on the ceiling above and, of course, any point in-between along that line. The only deviation is an imaginary point to the left or right of no more than 20-degrees to either side of the line – unless of course it is to a space overhead ceiling where walls and ceiling meet, or directly to the point of entry should another person enter the room.
The air is often thick with silence. Regardless of vacancy. For the first to enter, a vacant wall is an empty canvass where solitude is sought after and anything different beckons for reason. The initial sound of someone crossing the threshold triggers a swivel at the neck. It is similar to the response of a drill sergeant calling for eyes right, or eyes left as a march proceeds. After all, there is always potential for threat in this vulnerable state. Like a high-speed Kung-Fu close-up, there is an element of surprise that erupts as another man enters the room. This half-second glimpse between a sure-footed sentinel engaged in the act and a newcomer to this scene contains an unspoken exchange that establishes age, purpose, build, confidence, and, in some cases, hierarchy. There is generally at least one threat recognized in this moment – from either end of this interaction – which is then acknowledged, dismissed and quelled only by the duration it will take to complete the task at hand. The world’s problems can wait at the door without regard. A suit, a blue collar, clean shoes, dirty boots – no matter. There is no time for chit-chat, no time for contemplation. Men among men are somewhere between being caught off-guard and being in the same place for the same reason at the same time.
Because of this understanding, there is a pre-defined zone set by another unspoken rule: never close the gap if a gap can be maintained. This rule is often one that carries over into communal seating arrangements as in movie theaters, classrooms or dining tables – at a minimum, one chair-back width across. The space between two active patrons is no less than the distance of outstretched arms met for a fist bump (which would never happen in a men’s room). The first to enter a men’s room takes the farthest from the door, the next to enter takes the farthest from the last, and on and on, always leaving space between until no spaces are left. This is the way of things and only waivers if there is no other option. Access to this statically charged zone is allowed, temporarily, without invitation, carte blanche – but with certain unspoken caveats.
On occasions where men stand shoulder to shoulder, disarmed and exposed, the pressure to diffuse the threat can be toxic. Sometimes when it builds to a point beyond suspense, or if inhibitions are out the window, conversation erupts. The tone is often set by the speaker, an Alpha or Omega, who chooses his words with vague caution, intends only to break the tension, and is typically less than seven words.
Something like, “How about that game last night?”
Or, “This is where the dicks hang out.”
Things like that.
Just like any contestant, the experienced tend to master the art of the approach, the stance, the follow-through. Generally, it mimics the trend of a golfer approaching a six-foot putt, or a baseball player approaching the batter’s box at the start of an inning. The destination remains the same as it has been time and again – numbed by repetition. It is a means to an end. It is nothing fancy but it is seated in practiced, meaningful terms. The style is characteristic, be it fast and intentional or slow and methodic. The quick approach is almost always accompanied by an audible, thankful exhalation, or sometimes a pant of relief. Shoulders drop. Head lifts. The slow approach is often cued by the clink-clink of a belt buckle and foreign sense of unhurried, methodic leisure. The flow starts and stops without emphasis or punctuation. In every approach though, there is a signature left-right planting of the feet, then grounding through the heels, then squaring of the shoulders exactly parallel to wall ahead, eyes fixed at a point inches away, while practiced hands sometimes fumble for access. After all is done, one shake is acceptable, two is excessive, three is uncalled for.
Age is rarely of consequence and only seems a point for concern when a flow stops suddenly, then restarts after a long, awkward pause of inactivity. Generally, this is a sign of medical concern. Nobody mentions it. The little tykes have a safe zone, of course, the one offset at the end of a series along the wall about 8” lower than the rest. Dads and big brothers are allowed to help, but only to guide the stream with a heavy hand on a shoulder or lower back. Occasionally they coach. They look up and away and enforce the rules until the little ones can handle themselves, which is in nearly every case long before they learn to tie their own shoes. At some point around puberty, they will experience a graduation of sorts without audience or approval that permits access to the adult urinals. There is neither applause nor interrogation. The zone spacing rule still applies.
The greatest enforcer of these rules is a simple slab that separates each urinal. The comfort panel – the ego barrier. These metal shrouds serve as an insulating layer as if separating two atoms at the risk of collision. But without them there are just two men standing partially naked right next to each other. The panels are typically metal and are bolted to the wall with dual chrome anchors at the top and bottom. Most of these barriers are painted a solid, unimpressive color but a few have etchings in the paint depicting all levels of crude. This is the extent of creativity, with limits defined only by what a sharp edge can do on paint, or what an artist (with enough forethought to bring along a permanent marker) can do to illustrate some form of cartoon-like anatomy. Phone numbers of ex’s and conquests and solicitors take shape. Swastikas turn into windows over time. All other commentary is fair game on a wall that only regulars will see — the original Facebook for complete strangers.
In some circumstances where no comfort panel exists, there is instead an intensified silence, hands guard as visual barriers and a sense of urgency becomes paramount. The pink scented pucks that cover the drains provide little comfort in comparison. In stadiums and airports where no barriers are in place to uphold the rules, the wall splatterings are hurried and bodies are churned out with assembly line efficiency.
There exists a few who deviate from these conventions, and they do so most often because of belligerence or too much alcohol or social ineptitude or any combination of the three. There is the one-hand-stander who can’t help but brace himself by placing a thick palm on the wall in front of him to offset the weight of a pot belly or bum knee. There is the open talker who doesn’t realize like the rest that conversation stops at the door. There is the toe-tapper, the whistler, the smart phone abuser, the swayback stander, the non-flusher. Each in turn defies the unspoken rules of these wall-mounted thrones whose rubrics have been established over decades of silent, mutually accepted norms. But there is never a confrontation or correction. Instead, the trespassers absolved bear the full weight of Luke 23:34, as bystanders shake their heads, zip their flies, and make mental notes for the next awkward encounter.
A woman might envy this fixture if only to be afforded the chance for once to stand and be relieved. But there is more to this scene than a perceived ovation. There are certain unspoken rules in a men’s room, especially where urinals are involved. Looking is not allowed – glances included. Instead, one must focus directly on an imaginary line along the meridian that extends from the exact midpoint of the stance on the floor to the same point on the ceiling above and, of course, any point in-between along that line. The only deviation is an imaginary point to the left or right of no more than 20-degrees to either side of the line – unless of course it is to a space overhead ceiling where walls and ceiling meet, or directly to the point of entry should another person enter the room.
The air is often thick with silence. Regardless of vacancy. For the first to enter, a vacant wall is an empty canvass where solitude is sought after and anything different beckons for reason. The initial sound of someone crossing the threshold triggers a swivel at the neck. It is similar to the response of a drill sergeant calling for eyes right, or eyes left as a march proceeds. After all, there is always potential for threat in this vulnerable state. Like a high-speed Kung-Fu close-up, there is an element of surprise that erupts as another man enters the room. This half-second glimpse between a sure-footed sentinel engaged in the act and a newcomer to this scene contains an unspoken exchange that establishes age, purpose, build, confidence, and, in some cases, hierarchy. There is generally at least one threat recognized in this moment – from either end of this interaction – which is then acknowledged, dismissed and quelled only by the duration it will take to complete the task at hand. The world’s problems can wait at the door without regard. A suit, a blue collar, clean shoes, dirty boots – no matter. There is no time for chit-chat, no time for contemplation. Men among men are somewhere between being caught off-guard and being in the same place for the same reason at the same time.
Because of this understanding, there is a pre-defined zone set by another unspoken rule: never close the gap if a gap can be maintained. This rule is often one that carries over into communal seating arrangements as in movie theaters, classrooms or dining tables – at a minimum, one chair-back width across. The space between two active patrons is no less than the distance of outstretched arms met for a fist bump (which would never happen in a men’s room). The first to enter a men’s room takes the farthest from the door, the next to enter takes the farthest from the last, and on and on, always leaving space between until no spaces are left. This is the way of things and only waivers if there is no other option. Access to this statically charged zone is allowed, temporarily, without invitation, carte blanche – but with certain unspoken caveats.
On occasions where men stand shoulder to shoulder, disarmed and exposed, the pressure to diffuse the threat can be toxic. Sometimes when it builds to a point beyond suspense, or if inhibitions are out the window, conversation erupts. The tone is often set by the speaker, an Alpha or Omega, who chooses his words with vague caution, intends only to break the tension, and is typically less than seven words.
Something like, “How about that game last night?”
Or, “This is where the dicks hang out.”
Things like that.
Just like any contestant, the experienced tend to master the art of the approach, the stance, the follow-through. Generally, it mimics the trend of a golfer approaching a six-foot putt, or a baseball player approaching the batter’s box at the start of an inning. The destination remains the same as it has been time and again – numbed by repetition. It is a means to an end. It is nothing fancy but it is seated in practiced, meaningful terms. The style is characteristic, be it fast and intentional or slow and methodic. The quick approach is almost always accompanied by an audible, thankful exhalation, or sometimes a pant of relief. Shoulders drop. Head lifts. The slow approach is often cued by the clink-clink of a belt buckle and foreign sense of unhurried, methodic leisure. The flow starts and stops without emphasis or punctuation. In every approach though, there is a signature left-right planting of the feet, then grounding through the heels, then squaring of the shoulders exactly parallel to wall ahead, eyes fixed at a point inches away, while practiced hands sometimes fumble for access. After all is done, one shake is acceptable, two is excessive, three is uncalled for.
Age is rarely of consequence and only seems a point for concern when a flow stops suddenly, then restarts after a long, awkward pause of inactivity. Generally, this is a sign of medical concern. Nobody mentions it. The little tykes have a safe zone, of course, the one offset at the end of a series along the wall about 8” lower than the rest. Dads and big brothers are allowed to help, but only to guide the stream with a heavy hand on a shoulder or lower back. Occasionally they coach. They look up and away and enforce the rules until the little ones can handle themselves, which is in nearly every case long before they learn to tie their own shoes. At some point around puberty, they will experience a graduation of sorts without audience or approval that permits access to the adult urinals. There is neither applause nor interrogation. The zone spacing rule still applies.
The greatest enforcer of these rules is a simple slab that separates each urinal. The comfort panel – the ego barrier. These metal shrouds serve as an insulating layer as if separating two atoms at the risk of collision. But without them there are just two men standing partially naked right next to each other. The panels are typically metal and are bolted to the wall with dual chrome anchors at the top and bottom. Most of these barriers are painted a solid, unimpressive color but a few have etchings in the paint depicting all levels of crude. This is the extent of creativity, with limits defined only by what a sharp edge can do on paint, or what an artist (with enough forethought to bring along a permanent marker) can do to illustrate some form of cartoon-like anatomy. Phone numbers of ex’s and conquests and solicitors take shape. Swastikas turn into windows over time. All other commentary is fair game on a wall that only regulars will see — the original Facebook for complete strangers.
In some circumstances where no comfort panel exists, there is instead an intensified silence, hands guard as visual barriers and a sense of urgency becomes paramount. The pink scented pucks that cover the drains provide little comfort in comparison. In stadiums and airports where no barriers are in place to uphold the rules, the wall splatterings are hurried and bodies are churned out with assembly line efficiency.
There exists a few who deviate from these conventions, and they do so most often because of belligerence or too much alcohol or social ineptitude or any combination of the three. There is the one-hand-stander who can’t help but brace himself by placing a thick palm on the wall in front of him to offset the weight of a pot belly or bum knee. There is the open talker who doesn’t realize like the rest that conversation stops at the door. There is the toe-tapper, the whistler, the smart phone abuser, the swayback stander, the non-flusher. Each in turn defies the unspoken rules of these wall-mounted thrones whose rubrics have been established over decades of silent, mutually accepted norms. But there is never a confrontation or correction. Instead, the trespassers absolved bear the full weight of Luke 23:34, as bystanders shake their heads, zip their flies, and make mental notes for the next awkward encounter.