[Critique Group 1] Apparently, I sent you an incomplete copy for Martia .

Fri Apr 19 13:35:01 EDT 2019

-----Original Message-----
From: Marcia Wick <marciajwick at gmail.com>
To: Leonard Tuchyner <tuchyner5 at aol.com>
Cc: Critique Group 1 <group1 at bluegrasspals.com>
Sent: Tue, Apr 16, 2019 10:32 pm
Subject: [Critique Group 1] Marcia's April submission Bathrooms for the Blind

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Bathrooms for the Blind

Marcia J. Wick, The Write Sisters

April 2019

Word Count:  767

The high-pitched screeching, screaming sound track  from the bathroom scene in the Hitchcock thriller “Psycho” Plays in the back of my brain as my guide dog and I, with fear and trepidation,  enter an unfamiliar public restroom. Since going blind, I approach bathrooms at airports, restaurants, or shopping malls hoping to escape alive. 

Architects and designers fail to consider using standard materials or logical floor plans to clue a person with low vision in on where to find the toilet, sink, hand towels, or garbage bin. With the help of my guide dog, I can zig and zag through the entryway, although we then have a 50/50 chance of finding the toilets on the right and the sinks on the left, or vice versa. Once in the right aisle, we often finds the larger compartment for persons with disabilities at the end of the row, although on occasion we hit the probervial brick wall, having passed the accessible stall first on the way in. Fellow restroom visitors typically come to our rescue as we hunt for the correct stall. Once found, my guide dog and I dance the two-step around our overly-helpful bathroom volunteer while fumbling for the handle to determine if the door swings in or out. Think of the possibilities!

Safe inside the cubicle, I secure the lock - once I figure out whether it is a slide bolt, a rotating knob, or a hook and eye apparatus. I fish around for the coat hook (if there is one) on which to hang my backpack to avoid parking my belongings on the “iffy” clean and dry floor. 

Once ensconced on the throne, I begin to search for toilet paper, praying I don’t touch unseen surprises along the way – the sanitary product receptacle, for one. Toilet paper dispensers may be mounted to the left or right, high or low; Machines may (or may not) hold up to four rolls, if they’ve been replenished. (Note:  Always carry a personal tissue pack in case of emergencies.)

If a spare roll of toilet paper is precariously balanced atop the dispenser, I inevitably will knock the roll to the floor and listen with chagrin while it unravels under the door out into the main area of the lavatory. As I lift my hips to wipe, I may be surprised when the automatic flush mechanism responds prematurely prompting me to spring up to avoid the aggressive action and likely overspray; or, I may be forced to hunt for the manual mechanism –on the top, left, or right of the tank, or perhaps find a button or lever mounted on the wall.

I check my zipper and secure my backpack, becoming self-conscious of the time it’s taking me to dispense of my duty. My guide dog waits patiently but refuses to help. It must amuse her, I think, to watch my gyrations inside this box. 

the screeching in my ears increases in volume as I direct my dog to leave the stall and turn right, if I remember correctly, to find the sinks. If the facility is large, like at an international airport, the echo chamber is deafening. Toilets flush, water whooshes, towel dispensers whir, and hot air dryers churn like the jet engines on the runway.  The cacophony bounces off the cold, ceramic tile. 

Following the sound of water falling, I inch forward searching for the nearest sink. Reaching for a knob or handle without success, I discover the faucet turns on automatically when my fingers flutter under the nozzle.

“The soap’s to the right,” another helpful bathroom-goer says. I reach up and stab the back of my hand on the spicket.

“I found it,” I say to no one longer there.

Now, what to do about hand-drying? I turn toward the jet propulsion lab on the opposite wall. The air dryer I bump into refuses to function by motion or touch, so I double cross the room to the wall flanking the sinks. With luck, I locate a loaded paper towel dispenser that operates with a simple crank handle - I can exact precisely the amount I desire. An automatic machine always seems to crank out too much or too little paper with each motion. By good fortune, I find the container for used hand towels directly under the towel dispenser! How often have I navigated the perimeter of a bathroom with my foot to hunt for the rubbish pail, often tucked diagonally across the way? 

“Find the door, outside,” I command my guide dog. Get me out of here, I pray, feeling lucky to escape the horror chamber alive.

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