Diary of Night Club Bathroom Wall

If walls could talk is something I hear my patrons say at least twice a week. As a dirty, written on, splattered daily with body fluids, dive bar bathroom wall, I could write a book about all the wild nights I have witnessed. Instead, I want to focus on one particular customer I have grown somewhat fond of. This person has kept me entertained with all of their enlightened words of humorous wisdom, and I watched this person for years. This individual has a proper name, but they have assumed an anonymous identity so as not to be prosecuted for defacement of me, but I know who they are, and what they do.

Though it is difficult from my perspective to read the Shithouse Poet’s words being backwards and all, I can honestly say that I never figured humans to be so enlightened on the porcelain throne. My favorite poem by said person is “The Toilet.” Though I don’t quite know if it was meant to be a poem or not. My favorite poet happens to be a college graduate, so the words are not what I normally see on my face.

“The bathroom is an epiphanic vortex. The toilet resides within the comforting walls of any dwelling, in any place, in any universe. Humans, meaning those genetically expressing two arms, two legs, two eyes, carbon based, use the bathroom as a controlled environment for the regurgitation of alcohol and food, elimination of waste products, meditation, breeding, reading, writing, drug use, and this is only a few of the human uses for the toilet. What did you use this toilet for?” Below this is a long list of people proclaiming what they did in this stall. The list starts out like this: “Joanne was here and took a dump, Misty had sex with Bill, Rachel puked on the floor, I snorted a line of coke off Gina’s tit.” I could not believe the wild confessions people wrote under her question. I don’t know what she was smoking or drinking that night but that was so popular, the responses wrapped around to the other side. I know this because the mirror read them to me.

If I didn’t mention it already, what will totally blow your socks off, is the extraordinary shithouse poet is a woman. I think I might be in love with her. I have seen her in her best and worst moments in this water closet hole. Some of the major moments of her life happened right here. I saw her with tears streaming down her face, mascara running down her neck when Don broke up with her. I saw her boobs when she was changing into a dry shirt after the wet T-shirt contest. “Oooh la la.” I saw her dressed up for the Halloween costume contest. Vomiting after too many boiler makers, practicing singing for the karaoke contest, making out with her best friend. “Wow! That was hot!” She has one of those sweet voices. By the looks of her, one would expect her to have a sultry, sexy voice. Even her tinkle sounds bubbly and nice. I know I must be the craziest wall on Earth. I want to admit though she is incredibly beautiful, I love her for her mind, rebellious nature, and openness in expressing whatever she wants on me. I love her handwriting, too. Check this out for it is forever burned in my memory:

sllaw esuohtihs no setirw ohw ehS

!sllab elttil ni this reh slloR

Tiw fo senil eseht sdaer ohw ehS

! this fo sllab elttil esoht staE

Oops, that was backwards. Hopefully this can still be read. She wrote this one in cursive, which I have a hard time reversing. I find this kind of self-deprecating expression refreshing, and even though I think swearing in a poem is word porn, this could not be expressed any better! I am a bar bathroom wall, after all. What kind of five-star poetry do I expect? This is my only vice. I love to read. I have experienced and seen so much crap, but nothing compares to reading some profound saying on my face conceived by these bizarre creatures while consuming intoxicating liquids. A close second of my favorite things is when the band Snake Oil Pimps plays on every third Saturday night. This place gets packed! People standing in line for the bathroom and almost everyone writes on me. If only I had hands, I could have called a number of people for a good time.

If only she knew I have been watching her for years and I know her faults and love her anyway. I know she has a substance abuse problem because she has done all kinds of illicit drugs and some of them right here in this stall. Sometimes she leaves the stall door ajar, and I can watch her fix her makeup. Not that she needs any, but what I wouldn’t give to be that tube of lipstick. She is tough, too. She may be 5’1” or “2” without heels, natural blonde, and I have seen her put a girl’s face in the toilet for mentioning her ex-boyfriend. This chick was at least 5’8” and outweighed her by 30lbs. What a little biker Barbie! It’s as if she was meant for me. Everything I can’t be, she is. I miss her so much. The now deceased bathroom mirror hated her and didn’t like it when she blew breath on him and wrote. I’m like, “How can you not like her? She is gorgeous, she is intellectual, she is unique, and a walking doll!” The mirror replied, “Her breath stinks, she is violent when she drinks, she goes through more lovers than all the drinks that have been bought and sold in this establishment, she has herpes, and she freaking kisses me after putting her lipstick on!” I wanted to punch him.

He was in love with this slut. How do I know she is a slut? I overheard her talking about banging this dude she met on Plenty of Fish! She had a boyfriend, and she told her friend she was with both of them within 24 hours and she might be pregnant and had no idea which one was the father. A week later she was on the rag so the drama she created with her friends was negate. I don’t like women who wear a lot of eyeliner. She has dark hair, blue eyes, pouty lips, and wears so much eyeliner, you can barely tell what color her eyes are. When she broke up with her boyfriend, he followed her into the bathroom and punched the mirror. That was a grand day! I had been wanting to punch him for so long and finally someone did it for me. There is nothing like the sound of shattered glass to satisfy an arcane tribal need to vent by breaking something. AAH, the crashing noise I can still hear when I close my eyes. Grand day, indeed. The mirror was replaced and this new guy who has never seen my love nor the dark haired slut is now my companion. I think he likes boys because all he talks about is seeing a patron’s phone with a pic of her boyfriend in a football uniform. They should’ve put him in the men’s room.

After the incident with the boyfriend busting the mirror, the bathroom got a new lock on the main door. There are only two stalls in this tiny bathroom, and it is located at the end of a narrow hallway, so it is easy for men to sneak into the women’s bathroom. I have heard patron’s say there is a bigger bathroom on the other side of the dance floor, but my bathroom is the one where all kinds of acts of depravity are performed, especially now that the entry door has a lock. I actually witnessed a rape before the lock was installed. It seems to be the norm now for patrons to come in here, lock the door, and fornicate. I saw a threesome once on the sink counter. The old mirror got a way better view because this new guy is way smaller. Even my favorite poet used this bathroom on more than one occasion for coupling.

Two Months Later:

I have not seen my love now in over two months. I know it is hard to imagine a wall having a sense of time passing but I can hear people talk. Though I have no voice box and no way to engage someone in conversation, I have learned to read, and I am made of stone which the Native Americans believe even stone is alive. I think I have a God. There are those who believe buildings have souls. Buildings have walls so “I think, therefore I am.”

I think something is going on out there in the bar room. The mirror agrees. It has been incredibly noisy and the stall next to me got a new toilet. This has happened before back in the 60’s when the remodel occurred. It has been three weeks since the band played and there haven’t been many people in and out of here. Maybe this is why I haven’t seen my favorite poet. I didn’t know if perhaps she quit drinking, went to rehab, or moved away. The painters came last week, and her beautiful handwriting has been covered over. They installed this plastic stall that writing will not stick to. They also removed the condom machine she had scribbled on. I am so lost without her. I am hoping a brave soul like her will scratch something for me to read as I am so bored. If only I could have gotten a peek inside the other stalls before they destroyed my only source of entertainment. I know she wrote on the other walls, too. I could hear her giggling while writing. I know I shouldn’t feel jealous, being a bar wall and all, but I am.

I overheard one of the remodelers yesterday speaking with the supervisor and he said the Grand Reopening will happen next weekend. Apparently, this bar has been sold and will now be a restaurant serving no liquor. I guess there was a big petition and the church down the block pulled some strings and did not want this kind of establishment within so many feet of a church. I don’t know if I will ever see my heart’s desire again. I don’t think she will want to come in here if she can’t order a shot. I don’t know who the new owner is or what kind of order they will enforce but I am preparing myself to be even more bored than I currently am. Is this so all the churchgoers can come here after service and socialize? Wonderful! I can’t wait to see this bunch of squares.

Occasionally, a group of churchgoers would come in here on Sundays and I know they were because I heard them speaking about ‘getting out of church.’ I just have to wonder if they didn’t purchase this establishment. If they did, then they are straight up hypocrites!

Grand Reopening Day:

I think it is Sunday. I can hear the low rumble of voices in the restaurant. I have a had a few small groups of people come in here. An older woman came in by herself and she had a small bottle of gin that she nipped on while in the stall. A rule breaker! How fun! I love it! I guess the new owner has decided this is going to be one of those places that only opens Thursday through Sunday. When this place was a bar, it was open every single day for Happy Hour 4:00pm -7:00pm, and closed at 11:00pm through the weekdays, Friday- Saturday open at Noon to 2:30am, Sundays it was from Noon- 10pm.The bar did have a grill in the back and served sandwiches and burgers with potato chips. Popcorn was free. Though it was a limited menu, I guess plenty of food was served. I have no idea what they did to the kitchen, but it sounded like they knocked the entire wall down and built a whole new room.

The First Friday Night After Reopening:

Oh, Joyous night! She finally came back! She changed her hair! It is short and sassy just like her. She seemed sad, though. Her phone rang and I got to hear her sweet voice. She was describing the remodel to her friend, and I heard her say “They won’t make enough money off the church folks so they will be having Karaoke tonight, we should get the gang together and show ‘em how much money they are missing.” I could not hear what her friend said back to her, but I saw that rebellious light come into her eyes, wicked smile lift her cheeks, and devious chuckle ripple through her lips. I wanted to feel the tickle of her magic marker on my nose so bad! What would she write this time? She examined the stall plastic walls, then looked right at me. I was like, “Please, baby, please just a little scribble!” I know she could not hear me but I have been so lonely surely a magic marker would stick. They used some shiny shit on me this time that is supposed to be easy to clean off. I gazed into her jade flecked, contemplative eyes and knew after tonight, I would no longer be bored.

Saturday Morning After Reopening:

The restaurant is closed again after last night. The police were called when somewhere near 10:30pm last night a riot broke out. The writings on me have been spray painted. One of the stalls got completely knocked over during a fight. My love was here and did write on me just a sweet little note that she is back. All of her friends did the same. Then these strangers came in and pissed all over me, burned gang signs into the plastic stall wall, and killed my new mirror friend, it wasn’t exactly what I wanted to cure my boredom. These people can’t be her gang she was talking about. She has changed, though. The haircut, black lipstick, army boots did not match my sweet poet’s style. I know she is a bit of a rebel, but this is beyond rebellion. I tried to think if there was a reason for such destruction. Was it some political person’s anniversary of assassination? Did some law get enacted that these perpetrators didn’t agree with? Was it because the bar is now a restaurant? I know there has been trouble closer to downtown because I do hear patrons speaking about not liking the gentrification going on and destruction of community, but this is a nice neighborhood close to the college. This has always been a hangout for the college kids and locals, so why would the love of my life want to bring people together to destroy it? I am troubled, dear diary, and scared for my future. What if I become of a victim of urban redevelopment? What if they bring in the dreaded wrecking ball and I am killed like so many of my mirror friends?

Two Weeks after the Riot:

The painters came in again and it’s like no one touched me. I have been through this I don’t know how many times over the years. I have a new chalkboard friend Blackie hanging around now and the customers are using it instead of me. Yes, I am jealous. The church goers write psalms. The barflies write porn. The staff cleans the board nightly, and all parties are happy but me. I like to be tickled when wrote on, and even while I can feel a little bit through Blackie, I still miss a good pen stroke. I haven’t seen my favorite girl in a while now. My feelings toward her have been mixed at the moment, though. Blackie reads to me every day, hugs me all the time, and never leaves me all alone. If my poet grew up and lost interest, then so have I. I no longer yearn for the Shithouse Poet’s unrequited love.