I am downstairs near Theaters 7 and 8. The women’s room is small and I waltz into the handicapped stall.
First shocker is that the stall was occupied.
Second shocker is that the feet are facing away from me, the person is standing up, taking care of business.
I back up quietly and go outside to see if I’m in the right place. The sign reads: “Women’s Room”. Whew. Head scratching.
What’s happening here? With all of the fuss about transgender people and restrooms, I’m wondering if that’s what I have walked into. Although I would think a transgender person might be more careful than most to lock the stall door. Maybe a man has just walked into the wrong place?
We are in San Francisco, after all, and all form of gender mixed-up-ness are not only possible, but perhaps more frequent than other places.
I’m at the front of the line now, but I want to know what’s going on. Fair enough, right? “You go ahead,” I tell the woman behind me, as I pretend to do something urgent on my telephone. Need to see how this one plays out. I let a second woman also go in front of me.
And then, the door to the handicapped stall opens and a large Asian man walks out.
He freezes, momentarily unable to compute what’s happening here. Smiles all around. And then, showing an incredible level of self-possession, he calmly walks over to the sink and washes his hands.
If it were me, in the men’s room, there would be not hand washing.
There would be scurrying.