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Supermarket Bathrooms
by Harriette Halepis
Have you ever had the opportunity to use the bathroom in a supermarket? It is quite a scary experience, usually it is near the butcher counter, there you ask an overweight hairy guy where the bathroom is. He smiles and winks and says " right through those double doors there" and points to a set of doors that look like a collage of dirty, feces covered handprints. As you walk tentatively toward the doors you notice a strange smell and become increasingly aware of little kids all around staring at you as if to say "no, no don't go in there, go back! " You push through anyway. On the other side of the doors, it is cold, like a freezer. The room you have stepped into is only half lit. Men in overalls with blood stains on them turn to glare at you. Cold evil stares, emptiness echoing all the things they long to say. They remind you of what hell is like. At least what Hell is suppose to be like according to numerous paintings and drawings, men shackled by chains and driven by some other force that prevents them from speaking out, from telling you that they wish they could be shopping in the part of the store where weekly specials and cheery music blasts through the fluorescent atmosphere. They wish they could tell you how they would like to be wearing new clothes and smelling fresh, how their hands need a good manicure, but no, they are here, cutting meat in this frozen Hell of theirs, stuck there by some twisted fate, fate that seems to be all your fault.
You shudder as you see a sign hanging by one corner saying "bathroom" with a silhouette of a woman in a short skirt, (you wonder if the men in the overalls ever look at this sign and get a hard on) quickly and quietly you shuffle toward the door. After entering the bathroom you see another woman, she is cleaning the floors, her eyes are dark, the circles underneath darker. She scrawls at you as you step on her clean floor, yet you wonder as you near the first stall, why there is toilet paper all over the floor ad the bowl itself is brown with filth. Does the boss only step inside for a moment to see the floor shining clean? Do they not inspect the stalls? Or is the lady so wrapped up in her world that she forgets to clean thoroughly, only going through the movements to please the boss? You leave as quickly as you came in. Back through the warehouse, only this time no one is around and it feels colder than before. It is almost surreal, and you begin to wonder if you are lost, if you are in the right place at all, but then you spot the double doors and walk back trough them careful not to touch them with your freshly washed hands, instead you pull down your shirtsleeve and cover your hand to open the door. Cheerful music fills the air and kids laughing, crying and screaming greet you. Some stare, some wonder where you've gone, where you've been. Some know. As you walk towards the checkout line it all seems like a blur, the men in the overalls, the wash woman, soon all is forgotten as you go on your merry way, after all, they are not your reality, they are no concern of yours anymore.
by Harriette Halepis
Have you ever had the opportunity to use the bathroom in a supermarket? It is quite a scary experience, usually it is near the butcher counter, there you ask an overweight hairy guy where the bathroom is. He smiles and winks and says " right through those double doors there" and points to a set of doors that look like a collage of dirty, feces covered handprints. As you walk tentatively toward the doors you notice a strange smell and become increasingly aware of little kids all around staring at you as if to say "no, no don't go in there, go back! " You push through anyway. On the other side of the doors, it is cold, like a freezer. The room you have stepped into is only half lit. Men in overalls with blood stains on them turn to glare at you. Cold evil stares, emptiness echoing all the things they long to say. They remind you of what hell is like. At least what Hell is suppose to be like according to numerous paintings and drawings, men shackled by chains and driven by some other force that prevents them from speaking out, from telling you that they wish they could be shopping in the part of the store where weekly specials and cheery music blasts through the fluorescent atmosphere. They wish they could tell you how they would like to be wearing new clothes and smelling fresh, how their hands need a good manicure, but no, they are here, cutting meat in this frozen Hell of theirs, stuck there by some twisted fate, fate that seems to be all your fault.
You shudder as you see a sign hanging by one corner saying "bathroom" with a silhouette of a woman in a short skirt, (you wonder if the men in the overalls ever look at this sign and get a hard on) quickly and quietly you shuffle toward the door. After entering the bathroom you see another woman, she is cleaning the floors, her eyes are dark, the circles underneath darker. She scrawls at you as you step on her clean floor, yet you wonder as you near the first stall, why there is toilet paper all over the floor ad the bowl itself is brown with filth. Does the boss only step inside for a moment to see the floor shining clean? Do they not inspect the stalls? Or is the lady so wrapped up in her world that she forgets to clean thoroughly, only going through the movements to please the boss? You leave as quickly as you came in. Back through the warehouse, only this time no one is around and it feels colder than before. It is almost surreal, and you begin to wonder if you are lost, if you are in the right place at all, but then you spot the double doors and walk back trough them careful not to touch them with your freshly washed hands, instead you pull down your shirtsleeve and cover your hand to open the door. Cheerful music fills the air and kids laughing, crying and screaming greet you. Some stare, some wonder where you've gone, where you've been. Some know. As you walk towards the checkout line it all seems like a blur, the men in the overalls, the wash woman, soon all is forgotten as you go on your merry way, after all, they are not your reality, they are no concern of yours anymore.
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