Melville Cooke THERE ARE no bathrooms in Kingston. None. I used to look at men watering various corners of concrete with scorn, eye those sprinkling the green strips of the city with disdain, scan the public daylight display of private bladder movements with the lofty eye of superiority but no more.
I have become one of them. I, Melville Cooke, am a fallen man.
My Damascus Road actually began on Hope Road, heading to New Kingston. A (I suppose) healthy breakfast of oranges, bananas, cane and water began to bear fruit somewhere in the vicinity of Kings House. By the time I reached Jamaica House, making short spurts in the morning traffic, my bladder was doing a decent imitation of a three-quarter filled Rough Rider. (With water, you pervs.)
(Actually, I should have stopped there and asked the officer out front, beg pardon, excuse me, and let it flow there. Government does need a little shower of blessing from time to time.)
The stoplights at Kingsway and Trafalgar Road were extremely cruel, changing about three times a piece before I could make the left turn into New Kingston and then there was that other one before the PCJ building. Green nearly meant more than one go to me.
By this time I was trying my best not to think about any liquid and I swear I eyed a hydrant longingly.
Having delivered a package on Haughton Avenue, I sat, sweated and considered my options. I could go back home (way too much traffic), I could trot back to the office I had just come from and ask for the loo (just not on), I could find a public bathroom (where, pray tell, where? I am not going into those hellholes in Mandela Park), or I could swallow my pride, find a quiet corner and let it all hang out.
In true multiple-choice exam fashion I eliminated the three first possibilities and since all of the above was certainly not on, I set out on a quest to discover Kingston's last quiet corner.
I did not know the city was so busy. It got to the point where I was considering driving out to Palisadoes. Then I thought, "oh piss on it" and headed up to Mona, my Rough Rider testing the manufacturer's specifications.
And I saw my sanctuary. The NWC plant on Mona Road. The entrance set back a little from the road and an open space on the other side of the fence. So I pulled in, pulled out The Gleaner and 'read' while I surveyed the territory. When I figured it was safe I scooted out, positioned myself carefully, pulled the handle and killed all plant life in a 12-inch (alright, alright, six) radius forever and ever.
I felt no remorse. It was them or me.
In this 'citification,' this urban pile-up, this maelstrom of a metropolis, did any of the planners think about the very human element of bladder and bowel movements? I would be ecstatic if someone would establish a pay bathroom facility or two, or three.
While some may quibble about having to pay, I have no such qualms. Garbage disposal is very good business. (Did you hear about some smart guy in the US wanting to sell Jamaica rubbish? I say exchange is no robbery. We take their rubbish and send them all our cesspool truck contents for a year. It should help them to get on the 'organically grown' train.)
And while how we eat may be a measure of how civilised we are, how we relieve ourselves is a sure indicator of how barbaric we can become. One of the most sickening things about the city is the idea of people defecating into scandal bags. Now, how do you tell such a person about human dignity and all it implies?
The throne, the john, the loo, the water closet, call it what you will, was a stroke of sheer genius (a black man's actually). It is a place of sheer bliss, a sanctuary, a library, a thinking spot. Without it, human beings would be in a hell of a mess. Take, for example, the "Mona Lisa." While people like Nat King Cole have been engaged by her mystic smile, I think she is just putting a brave face on things - if that painting were full length we would see her lower half twisted into pretzel-like positions as she mentally screams "whe de outhouse?" And smiles.
Speaking of Mona Lisa, my heart always goes out to the women who attend the stage shows/dances I go to. There is always this long line outside the ladies room, with very few Mona Lisa-like expressions on the faces of the waste water waiters.
The scribblings on many a public lav are testimony to the creative urge that contentment brings. A particularly creative piece I saw at Munro College some over half my life ago has stuck with me to this day:
One would think by all this wit
Shakespeare himself came here to s-t
And this my friend, may well be true
Didn't Shakespeare have to do it too?
In fact, I have been moved to compose a ditty of my own, in honour of this modern marvel:
Many an hour I have spent on thee
Letting all it all run free
It may have killed Eulalee
But it will certainly not kill me
Oh Marcesa! How you gleam!
Not a speck of dirt to be seen
Your lines clean and right
Your seat at the perfect height
Your handle screams, 'Flush me, flush me"
I will take care of you eternally
With Harpic and Scotch Brite
For it is my delight
To take a dump on something white
Next week: Remembering September 11
Melville Cooke is a freelance writer.
