I am Mr. Spooky Scary Bathroom Man.
I close myself in a stall in the women's restroom for hours at a time.
Am I pooping? Am I masturbating? Maybe. That's just it: you don't know.
Mostly though, I am simply listening. The ambient noises in the women's restroom are like a symphony only I can hear.
The gentle tinkle upon water: young girls are like chimes, grown women like the high notes of a piano.
The plop-plop-plop of the Tympani.
The long moans of the oboe, and the squeaky expressions of rude trombone: they are all there, and I hear them.
The brash dissonance of the upset stomach, cymbal crashes and flutes.
The sound of the toilet paper roll.
The sound of heels on tile.
The washing of hands, and the tearing of paper towels: a series of crescendos, one after another.
Sometimes I can barely stand the Beauty of it all.
I record the audio of all of it, with precise notations of place, date, and time.
For example: the Target Store on March 4th had an especially winsome section starting at 2:35. There are so many others.
Of course, there is the occasional overheard cell-phone call. Personally, I think making a phone call in the bathroom is poor etiquette. Some people have no shame.
I am Laslo.