The Writers' Circle

I turn round the corner into the bastion of fluorescence.  The corridor is tiled from floor to ceiling in a ceramic white that reflects the strip lights and persecutes your retinas, as if you had been locked in a box for an eternity and then one morning suddenly pulled out and thrust in front of a floodlight.  The corner I navigate around is not part of the room's structural integrity; it has merely been created to stop people viewing in on the men's toilet, because people just can't get enough of watching men emitting their bodily by-products.

As I enter the toilet I see an old man stood facing the wall looking bewildered, both hands held out palms up and thrust into a recess in the ceramic room coating.  He's just standing there waiting, who knows how long he would have waited there. How long until he gave up the ghost or until his hands dried of their own accord?  For you see that was his aim, his simple desire, to rid his hands of the moisture thrust upon them, and probably his trousers, by an overzealous mixer tap.  The old man, frail and no doubt confused had taken refuge from the dizzying airport in a place that shouldn't hold too many surprises or conundrums.  The routine bathroom visit should be a breeze in comparison to the hectic airport pulsating around the screening corner, forcing him to unquestioningly follow the orders displayed on the TV screens vacant crowds gather around.  He is given a piece of paper which people constantly check as if it's giving you the right to exist and may suddenly expire cancelling that right.  His belongings are taken out of his sight, handled with a disregard for its value and disappear behind a mysterious rubber curtain.  His most personal belongings are placed on a conveyor belt and the contents brought up on for all to see.  The operator calling across a colleague to whisper about the contents, acting as if they are deciding to whether to operate.  His even more personal areas rubbed by a man with gloves as if to touch him would cause him to catch some flesh rotting disease. He is then sent on his way, trying to put his shoes and belt on as he picks up his belongings and moves on. Not being so supple these things do not come quite so easily as in the past, now requiring a little bit more concentration and strain.

He stands there hands held out, in no doubt of what should be happening, as if praying for a bathroom-based miracle.  The recess in the wall next to the sinks, where he stands is the obvious place to thrust your hands and wait for the sound of whirring and the hot air to rush past your fingers.  He no doubt took a while to become accustomed to this new method of hand drying, all through his own trial and error. On occasions leaving with slightly damp trousers where he had given up and decided to dry his hands on them.  Having to figure this it all out for himself as the men's toilet is no place for questions, especially around the sink where people judge each other on their hygiene etiquette.  People hover to pretend they are washing their hands; others come to an abrupt stop to catch a quick look at themselves hoping no one else sees their vanity; others give a quick pretend hand wash. It is an awkward area, where the shitters and the pissers usually kept well apart are thrust together, even more awkward than the urinal some might say. 

So after becoming used to the hand drier and its normal location on the wall, he is somewhat bemused at the lack of progress.  Waiting on the warm air to boost his poor circulation and heat his forever cold fingers.  For the heat which unstiffens the aging hands and enables him to wiggle his fingers to inform the machine that he is not done yet.

But here he's standing, hands held out in defiance, willing the hot air to attack the moisture that clings to his tired skin, to dissipate its existence into the air to linger with the smell of urinal cake.  He stands there, as I come around the corner and I see his hands, palms upwards waiting in hope, grasping at everything he holds dear - how he has adapted, how he is a functioning member of the 21st century, but to nothing. He stands there frail, his arms thin and slightly hunched but smartly dressed - the last generation to be so formal, no bold colours or excessive patterns. 

Part of me doesn't want to help him, to point out his ignorance. Just a fleeting thought brought on by my admiration of his defiance.  I reach into the recess in the wall and pull down the next section of towel from the dispenser above his hands. He looks up trying to understand what has happened and see who has intervened. Our eyes meet and I try to give a smile that encompasses my feelings, but he looks back at me a bit confused as if he wants to explain things. I move away, we are in the men's toilet after all. It is no place for discourse.