The Toilet Police

1741toilet/ 650 words

4/8/2017

The Toilet Police

 by

Harley L. Sachs

I’ve always been a guy. Even when I was only three, people used to call me the little guy. Now with all this bathroom brouhaha my guyness is in question. It’s all because of that Carolina law about who gets to use what toilet. The transgender folks, those who can’t make up their minds if they are a guy or a gal or whatever, have been persecuted. I can see that if I dressed up as a drag queen for the Moose Halloween party, it might look a bit peculiar, but even in a wig and lipstick, there’s no doubt that I would be seen as a guy. Stupid looking, comical, but still a guy. Now all that’s changed.

Now to use a toilet in some big stores you have to prove your birth gender. In Saudi Arabia they have the religious police, in case a woman shows her ankles, bare wrists, or doesn’t cover her eyes. Here it’s the toilet cops.

I was standing in line by the men’s room for my turn when I was stopped by toilet security. This was a tough looking person in a badge and uniform but of. to my mind, uncertain gender. “You have to show proof of gender,” the toilet cop said, very stern.

My gender was never questioned before. I thought it was a joke. “You want to see my circumcision scar?”

I thought it was a joke. Apparently it wasn’t. People who have undergone a sex change might have operation scars I don’t want to see under any circumstances. I have trouble enough with people who pierce their lips and noses. “

“You have to show proof of gender when you were born.”

“How do I do that?”

“Birth certificate.”

I didn’t have my birth certificate on me. Who does? If I were an immigrant of questionable legality I’d have to carry a green card or a proof of citizenship, but not a birth certificate.

Fortunately, that time my visit to the toilet wasn’t urgent. I went home and searched the file of documents, my high school diploma, my confirmation diploma from Sunday School, my military discharge DD214, and found a birth certificate issued by a Chicago clerk. I decided I’d better carry it with me at all times, just in case I’d have to pee.

Sure though, I did. This time I was in a different big box store and approached the public toilet. Again there was a toilet cop guarding the facility. This time I was ready.

“:Proof of birth gender,” I said, hoping not to be kept waiting. This time I really had to go. I showed my birth certificate. There is was: male baby complete with baby footprint.

The toilet cop was skeptical. “This is a photo copy. We only accept original documents.”

“What are you?  Ex IRS?” I once had to re-file my income tax because I sent a photocopy of the return, not one with the original signature.

The toilet cop wasn’t amused. “Got to be the original document. How do I know if you aren’t transgender?”

If I waited any longer it would be too late. I had to go, now. I gave up and hurried out the door. Round the corner, at the back of the building where there are no windows, I peed against the wall. I was in Italy once. Almost everybody pees against a wall in Italy.

Not here.

I was arrested for public indecency.

Funny thing was, they put me in a cell with several violators, some of them transgender. They’d been caught by the toilet cops without the proper birth certificates.

Nobody seemed to care in the jail. They have unisex cells.

I didn’t have cash for bail money, so I have to stay in the joint to  await my court date.  You know what they have for toilet facilities in the jail? A stainless steel commode and no privacy. Everybody uses the same one, with or without a birth certificate.