In the men’s room of the public library, a man is standing at the sink furthest from the door. He seems to be avoiding his image in the mirror. Head bent down, he has long, fine black hair that hides his face. He is very thin, dressed in a plain black hoodie and baggy jeans, not particularly kempt, but not noticeably dirty either. He doesn’t look homeless, but there’s something strange, something off.
There is the thump thump of the soap dispenser, the sound of running water coming on. Then, a second thump thump, the sound of running water coming on again, followed by the ceasing of the first faucet’s water. The first dispenser must have been out of soap, so he must have moved to the second sink.
I am standing at the urinal, peeing.
Thump thump, the sound of running water continues from the second faucet. Then, thump thump again.
And again. The whole time, the sound of running water. He’s still washing his hands when I zip up and come around the stall into the mirror. He’s washing them with what I would call vigor. Similar to the way a surgeon would, pre-operation. Or maybe a chef. He doesn’t look up, make eye contact, either with me or himself in the mirror. And again, the thump thump of the soap dispenser.
I tap the first soap dispenser. Sure enough, nothing comes out. I look at him, wait.
Thump thump, again. The sound of running water, starting to make me anxious.
And I don’t know whether or not to wait for him to finish with the sink that has soap, or to leave. If there was no one else here, I might not even wash my hands. But this man, so concerned with handwashing, would see me walk out without doing it. Still, he doesn’t seem like he’s going to stop. Standing there, waiting, I remember an article I read once about good bacteria: how there’s healthy bacteria that fights the bad bacteria, but washing your hands too much can kill it. I want to tell him about it, but I am doubtful it would make a difference. And of course, practical wisdom is that washing your hands prevents the spreading of disease. However, there is something pathological about this, I tell myself. Something in the nature of this exchange, or lack of exchange as it may be, that has the nature of pathology about it. If I were a psychologist, I am convinced I would now have enough to diagnose him.
It’s none of my business, I know, but I can’t help feel for him, that feeling of not being able to get his hands clean. I would like to give him some money, but I’ve been living on credit.
Thump, thump.
He is still washing his hands when I go out the door, and I wonder what, if anything, he thinks of my decision not to wash my hands, him being so preoccupied with his own hand hygiene. Or if he even noticed that, because he was there, I couldn’t wash my hands at all.
