Frequently Wrong, Rarely in Doubt

I’ve always considered the public restroom at work a hallowed space. A place of solitude, a brief, blessed reprieve from the relentless demands of the outside world. It’s a sanctuary built on the foundations of shared silence (much like a cathedral); and a mutual, unspoken agreement to pretend none of this is happening to any of us. It is, to put it mildly, the last place on earth you should ever hear a conversation about someone’s mom’s questionable new boyfriend.

And yet, here we are.

I had just settled in for my post-taco-bar reckoning when a voice, loud and tinny on speakerphone, shattered the quiet. “No, Brenda, I’m telling you, he’s not even a Scorpio! He lied about his birthday!”

My eyes widened in the semi-shadowed abyss of my stall. I am now a witness. A forced co-conspirator. This woman (I could see her shoes under the stall door, a detail that feels too intimate) has invited me to her personal TED Talk on astrology and terrible life choices. And not just me. Everyone in this six-stall purgatory is now an unwilling member of the Brenda Fan Club.

It’s a violation on a cellular level. It’s not just that she’s on the phone; it’s that she’s on speakerphone. She’s not just talking to Brenda; she’s talking to all of us. She is making me privy to her problems, forcing me to internalize her struggles with a man who lied about his star sign, all while the world’s most aggressive automatic air freshener kicks on. It’s a level of personal boundary erosion that feels like it should be illegal. There should be a law, a social contract written in blood, that states: “No phone calls in the pooping room.”

What did Brenda hear? The clatter of the paper dispenser as someone (not me, I swear) got a little too aggressive. The industrial roar of a toilet flushing. The very specific, quiet hum that says, “Yes, I am a toilet.” Her conversation was punctuated by a soundscape so surreal, so profoundly gross, that I can only assume she thinks her friend is calling her from a poorly maintained public aquarium.

I left the restroom feeling… dirty. Not in a physical sense, but in a spiritual one. I now carry the burden of this woman’s familial drama. The name Brenda is seared into my brain. I’m 90% sure that if I saw this woman in the hallway, I’d instinctively nod, a silent acknowledgment of our shared trauma. “Yes,” the nod would say, “I know about the Scorpio. And I am so, so sorry.”

Modern technology promised us a more connected world. It gave us this. It gave us the chance to be a silent, horrified audience to a stranger’s private life while they are literally in the process of, well, doing what one does in a restroom. So the next time you hear a phone ringing in there, don’t just sigh. Remember that you are now a character in their story. And for the love of God, please, do not call them back.