Born to Rut

It seems some people are born to be (speaking in simile) like pigs. Others are born to be (speaking in metaphor) pigs. Some are born to emulate Tolstoy and ; others to emulate Sarah Silverman. I am born to be in the middle.
I’ve witnessed pig tale at my “employer” that merits sharing with readers of Honey & Quinine who seem to be in the middle as well.
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At our granite showroom, the first thing visitors see as they walk with me from there to the exit at the back of the building after an easy step to the right and then to the left is our “unisex” bathroom equipped with toilet and vanity with tissue, paper towels, and cold and cold running water. The bathroom as a door that any visitor to the room more grounded in elementary propriety than a Warner Bros. cartoon character with a curly tail would know is likely to appear most appropriately as a door drawn almost closed. Said visitor would understand how the door, drawn almost closed, reveals the availability of the room for human habitation the way a door closed does not. Sure, the person approaching with dirty hands or purging waste on his or her mind can turn the closed door’s knob, turn it and pull, only to understand that the cozy quarters is “occupado” as they say with plastic signs left on airliner seats temporarily vacated. There is really no need for closing the door entirely and forcing the approaching visitor to go to the bother of trying to open the door and, with that innocent effort,  disturbing the person less than two feet away from the knob.  The door, left slightly opened — four inches, max — confirms the room is not occupied while saving a customer and a fellow employee the bother of looking into a BATHROOM.
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So what’s so wrong about seeing a bathroom? The appearance of even the best bathroom — say even the Bill Gates model with HOT and cold running water — is a distraction to the customer thinking about granite and marble, an un-necessary distraction, just like an unvacuumed showroom floor or short hallway so brazenly cluttered with samples and supplies it resembles bin Laden’s bedroom after the Seals flew away.
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I vacuum the showroom floor whenever it should be vacuumed. The hallway to the rear exit that SCREAMS APATHY and NEGLECT is beyond my control. The last time it was clutter-free, it was because the property assessor was visiting the next day. Three days after the visit, things and cascaded into disarray, the rut of owner’s choice in this backwater of “so what?”
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I also draw the bathroom door almost shut, on arrival here in the morning, right after I punch the time clock. First things first. Every time I move within line of sight of the door, I adjust my intended route in the showroom to allow me to partially close that door. When customers visit and I see the gaping maw of piggishness on parade, I race ahead of the customers as though I see a five-year old about to fall off a window ledge, and wit-ishly (I know wit has nothing to do with it) explain to customers following slowly, perhaps perplexed by my rush, “I know you didn’t come here to see our bathroom, ha ha ha,  you came to see slabs of granite.”
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Last July I produced a small note on the wall behind the toilet so that anyone standing, facing the commode would see it. The note was computer generated and printed in black and white, probably 4 inches by 6 inches. It said . . .
Some visitors to this room are not blessed
with the capacity to read and understand
simple English, but if you ARE one of those
so happily blessed, please demonstrate that
talent by closing the door behind you when
your business in this room is completed.
Thank you.
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On the inside of the door, the side anyone would see when facing the closed door en route back to the showroom or another place, I produced and posted a shorter note, a “reminder” about 8 inches by  11 inches with much larger type that read
“Please close this door behind you. Thanks.”
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The business owner didn’t complain. He had given me permission in July to place them as I had. He also ignored their message. From my desk in the showroom near the front door, I can neither see, nor do I want to see, who visits the bathroom.  There are seven people who work here. Some close the door, some don’t, some close it some of the time. I do not judge anyone here. I do not try to manage or correct the incapacities of these strangers. I can barely manage and correct my own incapacities. Even so, the neglect of a simple act of pulling the bathroom door almost closed (as I do every time I visit) seems to suggest more disrespect for the ultimate success of my “employer” than should be in an environs where we don’t eat corn cobs for dunner and feed ourselves with chunks of wildlife skewered on the tip of a knife. We who profess to respect the public at large, should demonstrate that respect, in part, by closing the bathroom door behind us.
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Little things mean a lot.
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Live long . . . . . . . and proper.