From the Archives: This Bookstore Bathroom Has Something to Say

In the mid-2010s there was a rash of online roundups where customers would review NYC bookstore bathrooms. The bookstore where I worked at the time never fared well in these reviews. By April of 2016, the bathroom and I were both fed up and decided to respond in kind.

Four reviews of customers by the McNally Jackson Bathroom

4/7/16, female, 40s, traveling with family

The lock had been malfunctioning for weeks, but you couldn't have known that. You weren't our first patron that week or even that day to have difficulty exiting, but you were the first of all time to be trapped for 13 long minutes while first one, then two, then four booksellers struggled to release you, calling out desperate instructions as though you were trapped in a well. You heard your family laughing from the other side and quickly joined in. You found out that your daughter was filming the whole incident on her phone when a bookseller yelled at her to stop, and you laughed so hard I thought you might soon need to avail yourself of my facilities again. One bookseller asked if you wanted a magazine slipped under the door and, as clear of a sign that that was that you were in completely incapable hands, you kept laughing and assuring everyone you were fine. You were freed. They asked if you would like a vegan cookie or organic free trade cup of tea on the house. You cheerfully waved them off, and emerged to face the day, smiling.

Grade: B, would entrap again

3/23/15, young child with mother

You tried to do everything right, and it was I that failed you. While I endured my near-daily injustice of plunging at the clumsy hands of a liberal arts major, your mother hauled you to my entrance at a speed the body is only capable of reaching after hearing an 8 year old say "I'm gonna puke." The door was locked- a small concession to my pride, I suppose, as it is bad enough having my insides torn asunder without an active audience. By the time the plunger emerged, you were gone. The sad puddle of your vomit looked up at me from the hallway. "I tried," it seemed to say. "I tried to make it in time."

Grade: Gentleman's C for showing up; A- for your work as Patient Zero in the SoHo bookseller flu epidemic of '15

7/18/13, irate middle-aged man

There are so many things you should know, but you wouldn't allow yourself to learn. I could have told you stories- stories from before I was coin-operated, when I was easy to get into and New York's hottest spot for the disposal of IV needles. Stories of what hypodermic needles do to plumbing- you cannot imagine, truly, you cannot, the septic ramifications of just one needle. They tried everything, the managers did, before resigning themselves to the coin lock. You think they don't know how it looks? You think they didn't know it would make them look like a rejected New Yorker cartoon's commentary on the sad state of brick-and-mortar retail? They did it only because they absolutely had to, friend, and they did it to save me. You considered none of this. "A QUARTER?!" you bellowed. They heard you the first time, I assure you- they heard you from Writers' Reference to Crime Fiction, how could they not have, but you repeated it two more times for good measure. "I'LL PISS IN THE STREET BEFORE I PAY A GODDAMN QUARTER." You said it as though to imply that you were being forced to consider a base and foul action that is so far beneath you it's hard to see from where you stand upon your hill of injustice. You said it as though there is no street in the world upon which you have ever pissed. Hear this: No one– NO one– believes that.

Grade: F. See you in hell.

6/4/13, Lou Reed

The inoculation against famewhoring is a standard but crucial part of new hire training at the bookstore. Out there, you are famous; in here, you are just someone struggling to remember the name of the book they were talking about on NPR this morning. It sounded great. They said it was like Gone Girl, but like a THINKING man's Gone Girl, you know? What section would that be in? The staff, the industry leader in not acknowledging famous shoppers for 6 years running in Publishers Weekly's annual poll, does not allow their world to be rocked by anyone. Except you. They found out you were attending one of our author events and, I swear, the energy and anticipation that radiated off of them as a group could have powered a hundred Moby Dick marathon readings. You arrived early; you were beatific. You were kind. You were standing within hearing range when another customer asked for a quarter to use the bathroom. Why a quarter? You asked. There's a coin lock, you were told. The quarter opens the bathroom door. Why is that? you wondered– not as though an answer was needed so much as though you were enjoying another in life's endless series of charming oddities. There's a letter posted inside the bathroom, they told you. Written by the owner. It explains her rationale. What does the letter say? You asked, smiling slightly. Two booksellers exchanged looks. The letter says that we were having trouble with people flushing needles down the toilet. It went on for years. Hypodermic needles, she continued, are really bad for plumbing. You nodded slightly, looking not at all like someone had just explained one of the tragic ramification of IV drug use to you, Lou Reed. You leaned in and smiled, like you were going to pull a quarter out of a child's ear. You don't need to tell me, you said. You took your seat, the event began.

Grade: A+