Mr. Clean

I finished drying my hand and paused for a moment in front of the sink. I could’ve—maybe should’ve—walked out the door without saying a word. But it seemed like one of those moments in life that demand comment.

“I thought I’d seen it all,” I said. “I guess not.”

No response.

A couple of minutes later, I was upstairs and almost out the door without having uttered another word. But I couldn’t stop myself from walking back down the steps to the mall atrium and seeking out the security guard I’d seen walking around. I did feel conflicted. What I’d seen was inappropriate and disturbing, but was anybody being hurt by it? I didn’t particularly want to get the protagonist in trouble.

But I so wanted to say the words I felt forming behind my lips, and I knew I couldn’t say them to anyone but a law enforcement, or at least a mall enforcement, officer. He was uniformed, of course, and he was of the authority-by-posture school—standing very straight, arms behind his back, eyes scanning.

“Sir,” I reported, “there’s a guy in the bathroom with his pants down, washing his dick and balls.” (I later wished I’d added the word "vigorously," as that would’ve described the situation more precisely and added some descriptive zing.)

Clearly startled, the mall cop said only the words “Thank you” before striding with urgency toward the restrooms. Out on the street a minute later, walking toward my car, I found myself hoping that the guy had completed his testicular hygiene and cinched up his belt by the time the gendarmerie arrived. His jeans still would be wet and perhaps partially lathered, but I didn’t want the guy literally to be caught with his pants down. I hoped the only fallout would be his ejection from the premises. Having accomplished what he’d presumably come to the mall to do, I imagined Mr. Clean of the scrotum scrub would be OK with getting the bum’s rush.

I did wonder what, if anything, the guy would say to the security guard, seeing as how he’d said nothing to me.

Anyway, here, in full, is what I saw and heard.

I have this Saturday-morning routine—not every Saturday morning, but many—where I park my car near Mazza Gallerie in upper Northwest DC at around 7 am, run for an hour in that area of the city, settle in at Chevy Chase Pavilion’s atrium with a Starbucks coffee and a bagel, read the entire Washington Post, and occasionally look up from my table long enough to get annoyed at other people for being preoccupied with portable technologies and speaking in languages I don’t understand. Yesterday, having taken care of all that, I walked down the long hall to the men’s room, knowing from experience that, having drunk a pint of coffee and another pint of water, a good draining would be necessary to keep my running shorts dry until I got home.

In the Chevy Chase Pavilion men’s room, there are two urinals next to the door, and two stalls next to the urinals. In from of the stalls are two sinks with a large mirror in front of them. I entered the room and stationed myself in front of urinal number one, closest to the door. As I let loose, I heard sloshing sounds behind my right shoulder, as if somebody was washing his hands in an incredibly sloppy and loud way.

I glanced over as to see a rather thin, shirtless man energetically massaging his own manhood, which thankfully was obscured by soap lather. The guy was not so much washing his penis as he was drowning it and wringing it out. He was taking handfuls of water from the sink, heedless of how thoroughly it was soaking the denim that was pulled down around his knees. He was kneading his johnson as if were dough and the timekeeper of a Food Network competition had just shouted “10 seconds!”

He paid me no attention, either then or seconds later as I washed up at the adjoining sink. His face was utterly expressionless. He looked straight ahead at the mirror—not at the squeaky-clean wiener he was creating below, nor at the pants that looked like they’d been through a thunderstorm and, weirdly, fire extinguisher spray. I know homeless people (if that even properly described this guy) often wash up in public facilities. I’ve seen that a number of times, in fact. But why the complete focus on the groin? This was entirely unique to my experience.

And I guess that’s one reason I ended up saying what I did. Although it sounded clichéd to me even as it came out of my mouth. And besides, it couldn’t have been less accurate.

“I thought I’d seen everything.” Really?! Because frankly, I don’t kid myself that I’ve seen much of anything. I grew up on a suburban cul-de-sac, I lead an insulated middle-class life, and I’m so poorly traveled that when I hear the world described as a global village I sometimes feel like its sheltered idiot. What I really meant by saying what I did was, “Now, this is something you don’t see every day.” And I’ll bet you don’t regularly see men uninhibitedly and publicly washing their wangs, even in the public bathrooms of Odessa and Khartoum and Soweto and all the other corners of the Earth I’ve never seen. (But I could be wrong.)

But it wasn’t as if I’d expected the guy to stop what he was doing, look me up and down and reply, “Actually, this is part of a Javanese pre-wedding ritual I’d read about in National Geographic.” But I had hoped to elicit some response. Even if it was just, “Fuck off!” Or “What’s it to you, chief?” Or, “Hey, look who’s talking—Mr. Dirty Dick.” For one thing, I wondered what his voice sounded like.

But, as I noted earlier, he said nothing. Maybe he didn’t even speak English. He did look toward me when I spoke, but more through and beyond me that at me. He never stopped scrubbing.

So, I left, and you already know the rest. I hope that man is free and clear of the law today, and feeling good about his state of testicular cleanliness. Unless, that is, his behavior was some strange sideshow to a bent toward sexual predation. In which case I hope my alert got a note added to his record that might someday be to society’s advantage.

Personally, I savored the opportunity to tell another human being, “There’s a guy in the bathroom with his pants down, washing his dick and balls.” It’s certainly something I don’t get a chance to say every day.