So: I've just come in
So: I've just come in from the men's room up the hall, where I didn't wash my hands. This is because the soap in the soapy-pumpy-gizmos there is always watered down to something like two parts soap to eight parts water. It's a New York thing, I think: Building Services profits are maximized here this way. It's not that way in Connecticut. Which doesn’t mean I'm a filthy bastard, mind you, it just means that I wait until I get back to the little kitchenette near my not-quite-a-cubicle to wash my hands with properly thick, rich, cleansing dish soap.
Of course, there isn't any soap in kitchenette A, because the department that's recently moved into this space prefers to use kitchenette B, leaving us up at the front bereft of soap, paper towels, napkins, and so forth. At one point, some vast petty struggle ensued over getting the department--which also has offices four floors below--to supply us with water cooler water. Utter nonsense! Now we've got water cooler water but--as I mentioned--no soap. So, it's off to kitchenette B, the favored kitchenette, to partake of the soap there.
When I arrive, there's a fellow at the sink, washing his single-serving French press coffee maker gizmo-thingy. He notices me, greets me, keeps washing. I wait a minute, standing behind him near the microwave, and notice some danish from the corporate-supplied breakfasty food type stuff they provide here. To kitchenette B, not kitchenette A, of course. I get some afternoon coffee from the Mr. Corporate Drug Of Choice machine, and gingerly slide an apple breakfast pastry whorl of some sort onto a paper plate, barely touching it with my as-yet-unwashed fingers. French press guy is still washing. Very thoroughly. I see suds. Hot water steams.
I wait for a few more minutes, or what seems like a few more minutes, but probably isn't, because living here in this city has destroyed any semblance of patience I might once have had. I read some printouts from Lileks that I had snagged to read in the bathroom. I think about leaving. But I can't really eat my apple pastry whorl thing without washing my hands, can I? I mean, I've already made the commitment to some form of hygiene by securing the pastry whorl without touching it. I could go back, sit down, do something for awhile, and then come back. But that seems silly. I'd be sitting there being mocked by my untouchable apple danish-style thing. So I wait some more, while my disgruntlement grows. Hey! French press guy! What's the deal? You need sterile equipment to make your freakin' joe? Come on! Just as I'm starting to get really worked up, French press guy turns and asks, politely "Am I in your way?"
"No," I lie. "Just need to wash my hands."
"Don't want to hold you up!" He steps aside, hands all a-sudsed. I wash my hands, using the bottle of blue Fast-Acting Dawn dish soap.
It's been diluted with water.
The apple breakfast pastry whorl thing wasn't very good, either.
