BIHKAL: The Shakespeare Cafe

As I've noted before, Toronto is rather clean for a city of its size. This does not, however, mean that every space in the city is spectacularly clean. Allow me to tell you a tale of one space that was spectacularly less than clean. To begin, I must describe "The Shakespeare Cafe." Picture the typical yuppy coffee shop: bar-top tables everywhere with people disinterestedly reading the news, a few overstuffed sofas, a few overpriced pastries, and some cute little plants and faux statues. You're getting close to picturing the Shakespeare Cafe. But you'd also have to add the giant Chinese buffet crammed in the corner as an afterthought, as well as the three televisions showing "Driving Miss Daisy" and the tiny convenience store selling batteries, feminine hygiene products, cigarettes and candy bars. And, as a final touch, 3 feet down from the candy bars you can purchase liquor by the drink. A very odd place, to say the least.

While at the Shakespeare Cafe, I am struck with an impending disaster of the gastrointestinal variety. In recognition of my French-Canadian friends, let's just say that I feel as though a "numero deux" is imminent. I begin to nonchalantly scan the room, searching for the facilities. Finally, I see a dark passageway leading south past the magazine rack. I go down said passageway and come to a locked door. A sign hangs on the door. It has been written with what appears to be a Crayola marker and has since yellowed and almost disintegrated. As Crayola markers and standard copier paper are apparently a very expensive commodity in these parts, the sign has been painstakingly laminated with scotch tape (of which there seems to be an endless supply!). The sign hangs at a bit of an angle. Written on the sign in broken English is: "Restroom ONLY for PAYING CUSTOMERS. Turn knob after we buzzer you." Unfortunately, the cursive "z" looks rather like a "g" when hastily written and smeared on a dark bathroom sign, causing me to wonder, "Just what the hell do I have to do to use the restroom in this place!?" Putting these thoughts aside, I try the handle, which is smeared with the sweat of a thousand sweaty-handed men. Nothing happens. I throw my shoulder against the door. Nothing happens. I see the small Asian woman who sold me my coffee coming around the counter, and so I ask about the bathroom, and gesture towards the door. She tells me, "Wait. I buzz you. Then open door." She descends into the bowels of the Shakespeare Cafe, which at this time are the most horrifying place I can possibly imagine.

Soon, however, I won't have to imagine.

A buzzer sounds from the door, followed by a mechanical click. The whole experience is remarkably like that scene in Silence of the Lambs where Jody Foster goes to see Hannibal Lecter in the maximum security prison. Behind the door is quite possibly the scariest bathroom I have ever been in. Now I know why Toronto is so remarkably clean: all of the city's filth has simply been piled into the men's room at the Shakespeare Cafe, guarded by an electronically locked door presided over by a small Asian woman selling coffee, Chinese buffet, and liquor by the drink in her spare time. I'll insert a line break here for you to ponder this fact.

Have you pondered? Good, because whatever you're thinking of cannot come close to the horrors that I faced on that dark day. At first, I was struck with the distinctive potpourri of urine and raw sewage. Everything was harshly lit by two flickering fluorescent lamps. In the unnatural light, I discerned two urinals on the wall, one leaking onto the floor, the other covered with a black plastic trash bag. There was no sign on the urinal, simply a large black Hefty bag secured with tape. But, as they say, a large black Hefty bag is worth a thousand words. Directly across from the urinals was a stall that was closed. I unlatched the stall, expecting to find a group of mole people waiting in the dank corner. Rather, I found a dilapidated toilet and a large flat white object about 7 by 13 inches. I was thoroughly repulsed at this point, but I had come too far to turn back. I examined the toilet. It had a seat, which was lucky for me, considering the circumstances. The seat was clean, save for a single, meticulously placed drop of urine. I rapidly wiped this away with a swatch of toilet paper, and pretended that I hadn't seen it. I then proceeded to answer the call of nature, hovering half above the befouled toilet seat. This was tricky, as the seat was attached by a single hydrogen bond between itself and the one remaining molecule of porcelain on the toilet. The toilet had apparently been cast from cement, and then later covered in porcelain to keep up with the increasingly baroque tendencies of bathroom style. The latter had flaked away, leaving some kind of stone dwarf-throne above which I now teetered. I reached for the toilet paper, only to find that there was only 1/5 of a roll remaining. Furthermore, the roll was only half-attached to the wall via a rusted, broken fixture. It was attached in such a manner as to make its removal impossible without ensuring its fall into the brown water pooled around the toilet's base. After completing the task at hand, I turned to flush the toilet. Suddenly, I placed the large white object. In my desperate delirium, I had taken it for a large air freshener. No, in fact it was the top of the toilet. That's right: the toilet's tank had no cover. Gazing into the naked tank revealed a mass of rusted machinery thatat one time probably served as a flushing mechanism. I tentatively turned the lever on the toilet. It turned a full 360 degrees and nothing happened. Upon examination, I realized that it was not attached to anything in the toilet. My only choice was to roll up my sweater and reach into the toilet tank until I had found the chain that, in happier, lighter times, had been attached to the handle. I pulled this up and (thankfully) the toilet flushed. I immediately proceeded to wash my hands in the sink. The soap dispenser was empty, as evidenced by two pieces of filthy soap left sitting on the counter (normally I would consider "filthy soap" an oxymoron but in that horrifying space outside of time, far removed from the light of Heaven, it was not). While washing my hands, I noted a second door in the bathroom, leading deeper into the Cafe.

I shudder to think what could have been behind that door. It had been boarded closed, and then duct-taped for good measure. It was half broken, hanging on its frame as though someone had kicked it in from the other side. I dried my hands and left.

The hand dryer was brand new and worked perfectly.