Confessions of a Port-O-Let Attendant

My job’s not that different from being a restroom attendant in a swanky restaurant, really. Well, except for the smell. You never get used to the smell. And when I go home at night, neither does my wife. I usually sleep on the sofa. Or in the yard. At least until the neighbors start to complain, too.

My amenities are OK though, I guess. Mouthwash choices are generally a half-empty bottle of hotel-sized Ginger Scope (from Thailand) and Old Spice. Eh, whatever. Sometimes I even have those brown paper napkins instead of having to offer my shirttail for patrons to dry their hands on. Since it's usually not hand washing that facilitates the need for a drying implement, the days when I have brown paper napkins are generally better than those when I don’t.

The best part of my job is meeting people. Though I’ve learned that lots of them don’t enjoy engaging in conversation mid-stream or mid-squat. And they tend to complain about the somewhat abrasive properties of my Bulk-O Brand toilet paper. But they’re mostly good folk. They understand that I’m only trying to take care of business, just like them.

Surprisingly, you don’t see a lot of tips as a Port-O-Let attendant. Stoned concert-goers, drunk NASCAR fans and uptight Little Leaguers either: A) Don’t carry a lot of spare change; B) Are relatively tight with their money; or C) Don’t think my lifting the seat for them warrants a couple of quarters. Eh, whatever.

But it’s steady work. My family’s gotta eat just like people gotta excrete, right?