To Capitalize on the Misfortune of Others

The women who wear athletic leisure apparel are the same women who use the thin, translucent toilet seat covers to protect themselves from the scary whiteness of the plastic seat. When there are no toilet seat covers available, they hover. These women are the same women who look at me horrified when I exit the stall. Their mouths make little gasping sounds and they check the sign on the door, nonsensically, because there are no urinals. If this were the men’s restroom, there would be urinals. I wear pants with a button and a zipper— they do not conform to the shape of my body. Everyone who has complimented my short haircut has done so with a feeling of obligation and asked when I might let it grow again.

A lady in a handicapped cart said, “Thank you, ma’am,” and then, “Thank you, sir” and then, “Sorry.” She gave me a dollar for helping her to her car. We are not meant to except tips, but I do it anyway, and so does everyone else. I suppose her hardship benefits me in this way, since, were she not disabled, I would not have had to help her, and, so, would not have received the dollar. I put the dollar in my pocket and I go back inside.

Sometimes it makes people angry, and those people are strange. “Excuse me, sir?” a lady asked, “or ma’am? Sir? Ma’am?” I was waiting for her question. “Which one,” she said. “Which one is it?” Her voice was all sharp edges. She looked distraught, which amused and disturbed me. Her eyelids were blue and glittery. Some of her teeth were crooked. Then she asked me which cherries were sweeter. I didn’t know.

As I clean the bathrooms, I watch myself closely. In the mirror, my nametag seems to read “ALLEB”. I would rather be called Pablo or Dagmar or Charles Darwin, but I will always be called by the same two dull syllables. Of all the misfortunes available to me, an ugly and ill-fitting name is a comparatively light burden to carry; small enough, even, to fit in a front pocket. They have asked me if I am Italian. They have asked, “Do you know that your name means beautiful?”

The women who call me ‘sir’ apologize when I look up and say “Yes?” in an unexpected voice. During the subsequent interaction between us, they are excessively polite, feeling they have already reached their rudeness quota. They do not say very much, afraid they will tip something over and spill its sticky disorder all over the floor. Again, I benefit from their discomfort; since I have now been made a victim of their disrespect, they have acquired the status of a transgressor. I can now do things I could not have otherwise done. I can choose to spurn them or smite them or to exonerate them with the solitary freedom of a god.

When there are no toilet seat covers available, these women hover. The pee goes on the floor and dries sticky like soda. I mop twice and still a slight stickiness remains; it has that sort of perseverance. These same women like everything clean. Around the handles of shopping carts, they wrap plastic bags, which they throw away as they walk out the door, thoroughly spoiling the earth with litter in an attempt to preserve their personal purity. These are the same women who stare like wolves at me, reread the sign on the door, mutter “women, women” under a hot breath. These very same women, from whose misfortune I reap riches like hard candy to smash between my teeth.

-Bella Braxton

Bella Braxton is a philosophy major at Agnes Scott College.