There’s an interesting phenomenon afoot in our country, particularly in the area of real estate development. I’m talking about the developers’ attempt to erect shopping centers – the grandeur of which would make Vitruvius jealous – without the hassle of – nay the burden from – the erstwhile necessary restroom.
Admittedly, it makes sense. On the one hand, they get the reduced capital outlay on the front side – for plumbing is expensive, and has anyone priced a toilet lately? This doesn’t even consider the hassle of increased ordinances and restrictions. Of course the greatest benefit for the developers might well be on the back end, however, for they’ve no doubt learned (as they seem to have done based on the scarcity of trash cans) just how laborious it is to maintain waste receptacles. Hence, they’ve chosen to eliminate them altogether.
As any honest reader of history knows, however, great ideas are often fraught with weaknesses, and for this one, there seem not a few.
One of these emerged when we were on vacation recently near Miramar Beach in North Florida. We happened upon an impressive structure, which, for the purpose of this article, I’ve decided to call “The Great Oasis in the Sands.”
Before I go to the finer points of my thesis, let me just say that, as shopping centers go, the Oasis must have been erected by the modern-day equivalent of the great architects of the Pyramids of Giza. Its visibility from the highway declared it as an august modern structure, even as its near perfect blend of modern clean lines and high ceilings with more traditional elements like terra cotta roofs and abundant green space revealed its designers’ ability to navigate between the great design techniques of yesteryear.
“They’ve thought of everything,” I told my wife as we walked up. “You’ve got to admit, it’s impressive.”
“There’s Anthropolgie,” she said. “I’ll only be a minute.”
But a minute turned into 10, and 10 to an hour and longer. In no time, I was forced to deal with what would turn out to be the central issue of the morning: ingesting too much coffee without the forethought as to exactly where and how the excess would be distributed.
“I’ve got to take a leak,” I whispered to her as she stood in front of one of the many grand and high-priced mirrors near the dressing rooms.
“Sure, hon,” she said. “Ma’am, my husband needs to use your restroom, please.”
The lady smiled as though privy to some secret open only to the extreme initiate. “We don’t have one,” she told me.
“But where do you go?” I asked her, though she seemed not to hear.
“I’m sure there’s one outside,” said Rose. This sounded reasonable, so I quickly knocked back what was left of my most recent cup of joe, set down the cup, and hurried out.
But there wasn’t one outside. I know this because I walked from one end of that grand, exquisite, perfect rendering of the modern-day commercial equivalent of Frank Wright’s Falling Water (sorry, it just seems appropriate), and, in spite of thinking of every offering possible to appeal to the senses of the modern shopper, there simply wasn’t a toilet.
Nor was this the only time this happened on this trip. All up and down the highway from North Alabama to North Florida, proprietors seemed to be of a similar mind, namely, we want your money but don’t think we’re going to furnish a restroom. Pay us and move on!
I’m not going to say what happened that afternoon, except to confide that people will and do find ways to do what must be done. I was all fired up on my walk back to the clothing store, deciding to make a stand. If they didn’t want to let us use their restroom, then it was simple: we wouldn’t buy their clothes.
I pushed open the glass doors a little bolder than I should’ve, calling to Rose from across the room. “Come on, hon,” I said. “There are better places to go than this, and with people who are much kinder and more thoughtful.”
She motioned for me to calm down. “Don’t be so loud, dear,” she said as I walked up. “You’re going to make a scene.”
“Well, certain times call for a scene,” I said even louder, “and that is what these people need. Let’s get out of here!”
“Sure,” she told me, reaching over and handing me two sacks of clothes full as sandbags. “But first I have a couple more stops to make. Can’t you get a coffee or something?”
I took hold of the bags and followed her out. “Sure,” I said. “I spotted a coffee shop or two while I was looking for the restroom.”
And there we went: deeper and more costly on our foray into the Great Oasis in the Sands.
Along with his father, Allen Keller runs a lumber business in Stevenson, Alabama. He has a Ph.D. in Creative Writing from Florida State University and an MBA from University of Virginia. He can be reached for comment at [email protected].
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