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- 0 1 0 1 0 - ME VS. THE TOILETS OF TOMORROW A Series of Epic Battles Between Man and Men's Room Posted 10/26/04 - 4:21 PM A green light shines next to a pair of gleaming doors. They slide open with a gentle "whoosh" and you've been granted access to a brave new world of stainless steel. Everything in here is glowing grey and smells vaguely of Comet. There are no windows. A cheerful, disembodied voice greets you as the sidewalk outside disappears. You're impressed. "The future is now," you giggle, pausing to take it all in before you do your business. "Why, I bet even Darth Vader himself would be proud to relieve himself in such a cool bathroom," you think, reaching for a paper seat cover. Then things take a dark turn. There are no paper shields. The automated sensor over the toilet is suddenly triggered and a piercing blast of water fires. Caught off guard, you step back and another trigger, this one over the sink, sends a gentle flume of water towards a drain. You're disoriented; this place has a mind of its own. You back up and hit a black button on the wall. The doors slide open with another gentle "whoosh" and you find yourself staring at a line of impatient pedestrians. You grab your messenger bag and dart off, your face red and your bowels still full. You curse the day you ever encountered Seattle's Public Toilets as you dart down the pier, hoping, praying that the staff at the Ye Olde Curiosity Shop will have mercy and let you use the one in the stockroom. During my trip to one of Seattle's four "toilets of tomorrow," this didn't happen but it could have. Instead, what I went through was far more awkward. - 0 1 0 1 0 - For decades, Seattle's business sector has flaunted futuristic architecture. In the 1960s, downtown hosted the World's Fair, leaving behind the Space Needle. A walk down 4th Avenue will lead you past the city's flashy central library, a building designed to look upside down, another made almost entirely of black glass, and the Experience Music Project's mishmash of neon steel. Seattle's four public toilets are an appropriate addition to a city with a skyline that looks like something straight out of a matte painting. The flashy potties debuted last March and immediately popped up in Associated Press stories around the country. They were almost too good to be true. A green light near the doors indicates when the unit is available, a red one when it's occupied. Each user is allowed fifteen minutes before an automated voice warns that their time is almost up. They're allotted another minute before the doors open. After every fifty uses, the toilets automatically clean themselves, ensuring that they never become too dirty, unlike the average port-a-pot. Despite a seemingly genius design, Seattle's toilets were plagued with problems from day one. As detailed in USA Today, two men, tired of waiting, pried open the doors of the restroom in the Chinatown District, interrupting its cleaning cycle. In Waterfront Park, a man entered one unit and waited patiently for the doors to close. When they didn't, he relieved himself as a family with a stroller passed by. In Victor Steinbrueck Park near Pike Place Market, several men tired of the long waits "marked" the side of the machine. - 0 1 0 1 0 - A few weeks ago, I was in Seattle for a concert. With time to kill I went looking for the bathroom near Pike Place Market. Maybe these toilets had been given a bad rap. Surely, with several months to work out the kinks, they would work like a space-aged dream machine. I wandered along Puget Sound, not quite sure where the bathroom was located. Maybe there would be signs. Would the toilet charge admission? I passed the marina, the aquarium and an angry street poet before spotting a tiny building embedded in the edge of the sidewalk near a fountain. I had arrived at the toilet at Victor Steinbrueck Park, the one that once endured the bladder blasts of several angry men. A series of steps and an already worn railing lead up to the doors of this potty of the future. Ahead of me, two women stepped up and pushed the "open" button. One curiously poked her head in, had a quick look-see, and they continued on their way, chuckling down the pier. Before I could duck in the doors closed and the red light illuminated. I waited. Surely the toilet would realize no one was inside and they would open shortly. Five minutes passed. How much time was I willing to invest in a spin on a bathroom from the year 3000? Another minute passed. Others joined me in line. "Is there someone in there?" a slouching teen asked, his head buried in a pair of gigantic earphones. I shook my head. He shot me a look of disbelief before leaving, seemingly convinced that I had somehow broken the thing. Time dragged onwards. I noticed a phone number written on the side and made a call. "Uhhh, the future toilet down by Pike Street Market won't open. Someone walked in, ducked out and now it seems to be stuck." A bored voice on the other line rattled off a quick explanation. "Yeah, they do that. Once the fifteen minutes is up, an alarm will go off and the doors will open. If you can't wait, head up to the fish market." Again, I waited. Finally, after a full fifteen minutes, I overheard a faint recorded voice inside. A few more seconds passed, a buzzer sounded and the doors opened. Once inside, I quickly hit a large black button to shut them, fearing that a mother with a small poop-filled child would rush up and force me to give up my turn. I immediately broke out the camera and began taking pictures of everything. Completely oblivious to anyone outside that might be in the middle of a major gastrological emergency, I played with the sink and flushed the toilet several times. What can I say? This was my first trip to a toilet of the future. I wanted to make the most of it. With the exception of a few pieces of tissue on the floor, the place was spotless. It even smelled nice. In most urban areas, the mirror would be scratched or broken and the walls covered in graffiti. There wasn't so much as a "here I sit, broken hearted" written over the TP dispenser. Either the city dumps a good deal of cash into maintaining these things or the sheer coolness factor has deterred would-be vandals. Maybe it was karma, but as I struggled to get an in-focus shot of the sink, my bag bumped into the black button. Bent over as if I was about to snap a shot of a kitten, the doors opened. Outside, a small line was waiting. "Ummm, I'm taking pictures. I'll just be another minute or two." At the front of line? A bald, muscle-bound guy with his girlfriend. Her jaw dropped. He looked like Mr. Clean's hipster son. Both amused and sickened, he smiled, shook his head and gave me a thumbs-up as the doors slid shut. True story? Afraid so. Situations like this don't only present themselves in American Pie movies. Try reading the "news of the weird" in any given newspaper. I was stricken with panic. "Oh my God, there's at least five people on the other side of these doors and each one of them is convinced I'm doing something horribly perverted in here." Maybe more had gathered. Mr. Clean Jr. was no doubt spreading the story. "I don't know what's taking so long. He said he was 'taking pictures.'" Aside from muffled laughter, I couldn't hear anything in this stainless steel torture chamber. There was no escape. One way or another, the doors would open. The clock was ticking. Had the toilet reset itself? Did I have fifteen minutes to plot my escape or a mere seven? When I had entered, I didn't actually need to use the facilities. I was only here as a tourist. I felt nauseous. The sound of me gagging would only further fuel the speculation outside. One of them no doubt had a cell phone and was calling the number on the side. Worse yet, maybe Seattle PD was on the way. I tried to think fast. "OK, if there are cops on the other side of these doors, just tell the truth. You write a blog about things like fancy public restrooms and you were just snapping pictures for an inane article. Let them search the bag if they ask. Once they discover the stunning lack of kinky sexual devices inside, they'll let you go. If all else fails, hand over the camera." - 0 1 0 1 0 - My mind flashed back a few weeks. As strange as it might sound, this wasn't the only time I found myself in an embarrassing situation involving a futuristic public potty during the month of September. While on vacation in Tokyo a few weeks prior, I sneaked into the lobby of an office building in the Roppongi district. This toilet was located next to a Starbucks clogged with business people chatting on phones and frantically typing on laptops. After a week of encountering peculiar, innovative devices littered with incomprehensible (for me) kanji, I pushed the wrong thing. I was hoping a red button, located next to the bowl, would make the toilet flush. Instead, it sounded an alarm. I frantically searched for another button to open the bathroom's Star Trek-style sliding door but it didn't matter. Even if I did get out of there I couldn't leave the building. My traveling companion was still using the other restroom. If I left, she would never find me. Instead of fleeing, and with every eye in that Starbucks firmly planted on my all-American face "flushed" with terror, I shook my head, waiting for the inevitable. I tried to disappear by sinking into the walls. Strangely, the crowd in the coffee shop didn't laugh or point fingers. They stared with calm indifference for a minute or so before going back to their computers. Eventually, an officer in a bright blue uniform ran into the bathroom and inspected every last inch. Who could be responsible for this cruel prank? Obviously the dumbstruck American, trying to hide in a large hallway filled with cold marble. He stormed up to me and threw out a few sharp sentences that cut like lawnmower blades. I don't know what he said but I imagine it was something along the lines of: "What's the matter with you? This isn't funny! That button is for emergencies! I thought someone was dying!" Mortified and knowing only three words of Japanese, I said in English: "I am very sorry. I pushed the wrong button." His frown turned into a smile as he politely bowed and headed off. The guard's anger had apparently given into cultural dictates of uber-politeness. He made it all of two feet before turning back. In my rush to get away from the alarm, I hadn't flushed the toilet. I had to wait in that lobby for another five minutes before my companion exited. She wasn't feeling well. "What was that all about?" she asked as we headed out. I didn't turn back but imagined everyone in Starbucks had been holding back glass shattering laughs until we were well out of earshot. - 0 1 0 1 0 - Back on the other side of the planet, I convinced myself this wouldn't be nearly as bad as what had happened 3,000 miles away. I put the camera away, wiped off my face with a towel and mentally prepared myself for another round of humiliation that would make most people's hearts stop. After the circumstances in Tokyo I could handle anything. Go ahead, Seattle, do your worst. I can speak your language. With my best Bruce Campbell sneer ready to go, I hit the black button. The doors opened. A crowd of three dozen people had gathered. A squad car had just pulled up. One officer was scribbling in a notebook, the other was grimacing. "You revolting cockroach," his eyes barked. Somehow, a cameraman from the Seattle Post-Intelligence had made it in time. Everyone was laughing. No, that didn't happen. The handful of people waiting, obviously repulsed by whatever horrible George Michael, NC-17-level shenanigans I was masterminding, had quickly left. They were no doubt blocks away, laughing about the whole thing, repulsing one another with lewd assumptions. I headed up to the market to eat a humbow in a tiny restaurant half the size of a subway car. During the meal, with a mouth full of fortune cookie, I quickly thanked Buddha, God, Jesus Christ, Muhammad, L. Ron Hubbard and Mr. Bubble for this act of cosmic mercy. The message inside, which I wrote down on the cover of Seattle Weekly? "Look towards the future, but not so far you can't see today." Good advice, I guess. Seattle and Tokyo can keep their toilets of tomorrow. The toilets of today suit me just fine. Previous -->