Way back in graduate school, before I rented an off-campus house, I spent part of a summer semester living in a men's dorm that, in retrospect, was probably a nightmare for the Shameful Shitters among its residents. Although I had no problem with the concept, the bathroom set-up was tantamount to a giant movie marquee announcing your pooping intentions in bright lights to anyone who might see you in the hallway at the opportune moment.
Here's how things worked. At the beginning of the week, the janitor dispensed two rolls of toilet paper per man. If you ran out, you could of course ask for another roll as the janitor made his morning cleaning rounds; or, in a pinch (as in loaf), you could use your roommate's. (Not me -- I was in a single that semester, so I didn't have access to anything more than the regulation issue.)
Presumably this controlled distribution of asswipe was to limit costs and certain forms of vandalism to the facilities (does the term "wet tissues on the tile walls" strike a responsive splat? We were told such activities had taken place in the past.). Whatever the case, it effectively meant that when you had to relieve yourself, you saddled up, grabbed your roll, and headed to the communal crap corral down the hall.
In the early weeks of settling in, it was not at all unusual to hear someone on the floor call out to a strolling pre-pooper one-liners such as, "Don't forget to flush!" or, "Don't use it all up in one sitting!" or the like. That's because carrying your roll was a dead giveaway -- no camouflage possible. You were just as likely to be recognized and called out returning from doing your doodie, as well. If you weren't comfortable with the arrangement, you had no alternative other than to use classroom facilities--which was not practical during non-classroom hours. You couldn't leave your roll in the stall because someone would surely swipe it for "extra."
Of course, there was one practical side effect. If you got in from class and your roommate was nowhere to be found, you looked towards his roll -- if it was missing, you knew exactly where he was. I remember walking with a buddy into his room at the exact moment his phone rang. It was a call for his roommate, Byron. My friend Tommy told the caller to hang on, put down the phone, surveyed the room briefly and then, with a knowing grin, said to me, "Byron's got to be taking a crap. Excuse me while I go tell him it's his girlfriend."
It was not unusual to spot two guys, each with his own roll, approaching the unloading dock together; and I do recall dropping off my freight one time next to two roomies who lived just down the hall. Since most of us ate at the school cafeteria on the same schedule, many of our systems were in sync, although I never saw or sat with more than three guys at a time in the five-staller.
Weekends, however, were somewhat more problematical, since the janitor did not work on Saturdays and Sundays. You had to be particularly conscious of how much booty blotter you had on hand so that you would not run out before the janitor's return on Monday. God forbid you should act like the stereotypical college student, goin to Pancho's, slamming back too many Margaritas or beers while overindulging in refried beans, tamales and sopapillas -- a case of the runs might prematurely exhaust your supply.
Even so, I can't recall any emergency situations during my two-month stint there -- probably because some guys went out and actually bought an emergency roll or two. I sure did.
I suppose there is something to be said for the regularity conjured up by staying on your best eating behavior, sticking to mild, mundane, meat and potatoes-type cafeteria food to avoid potential paper shortages. That and the fact that many of us did not fall into the "foolish freshman" category may have had something to do with our discretion. Ah, the simultaneous curses and blessings of approaching maturity!
Despite the fact that my Shamelessness saw me through an experience of essentially carrying a sandwich board announcing my business every time I headed to my office, I decided that I preferred the overall greater privacy afforded by an off-campus rental. That fall, my friend Bill and I moved out, and were now in complete control of our own wiping concession. I did, however, continue to visit friends I had made in Dead Giveaway Hall (as I called it), and I always got a kick out of giving someone I knew a little good-natured flak when I saw him with that telltale roll. Believe it or not, many of us became fast friends--and not in spite of, but because of all the forced familiarity.
Even in the most unconventional situations, it seems, poop still frequently ends up being the tie that binds.
-- The Big Wiper
