Nobody I know1 wants to think too much about what goes on in the bathroom. Look at that euphemism: bath room. Even more obliquely, Americans also call it a restroom. That’s so polite it elides what we’re even doing there. I guess I’m resting? Well, I’m sitting down (sometimes). But I’m not there to rest and I’m not there to bathe.
I spent a week in the lovely city of London recently with my girls and in the dog days of a record-shattering hot summer. We encountered a lot of bathrooms. If I seem preoccupied with what happens there, it’s only because the English are fixated on it. They don’t mince words. Rather than wrestle with oblique references or suggestions about what is happening behind the bathroom door, they simply come out and say it: toilet.
The English bathrooms get it out of the way immediately. We both know why you’re there. You’re standing or sitting here to put something disgusting from your body into a hole and never see it again. You devote your waste to the mysterious network of pipes underground and trust that something down there knows what to do with it. Not my problem.
Speaking of English toilets, there’s one word that comes to mind: upsetting. The toilets in the UK are deeper than ours, for some reason, like wishing wells. Everything that goes in them sounds like the deployment of a depth charge in a world war 2 submarine movie.
And then the flush — oh the flush! If the flush of an American toilet is a gentle, swirling shower, then the UK flush is a monsoon. If you’re really lucky, you’ll get a toilet with a whimsical pull chain.
They Say “Poo” and “Wee,” Too
America has colonized the entire world with our culture, so even the English understand what you’re saying when you ask where the restroom is (they might laugh at you, but don’t take it personally). To smooth the way, you should probably remember to call it what they call it: the toilet. If you really must be an embarrassed American, you can call it a water closet (though I can’t promise you won’t get laughed at for that, too).
But this isn’t about etymology or wordplay or even my trip to England. It’s about this nightmare:
The Tyranny of a Toilet Button
Renting from the slum lords of a college town provides an unwanted education on how toilets work and how to fix them. It’s much easier to pop the lid to repair a detached flush chain or diagnose a running toilet oneself rather than hope your landlord can take a break from the golf course or whatever to call you a plumber.
This training for life as an adult has made me prefer the lever flush because it’s a technology I understand. I push the handle down, it uncorks the tank, evacuates the bowl, and refills the tank. I know how this device works.
You don’t need any prior knowledge of the mysterious machinery inside the tank top operate it. There’s one lever there on the tank. You can’t miss it. It’s right there. Push the lever down, start the Rube Goldberg operation and go on with your day.
A lifetime of simple binary function has not prepared me for the button. Do my business, stand up, turn to face the tank.
Now I have a side quest.
Which Button Do You Push When?
There are two water drops on the top button and only one water drop on the smaller button. Does this mean I need to push the top button when I deposit only liquids into the toilet, or when I need extra water to dispense of the more solid material I’ve put in it? Are you sure? Have you thought this through?
The top button is slightly larger than the bottom one, so I would assume then that I am meant to push the top button more often, which suggests to me that the top button is going to be for good ol’ number 1, which is what I’m doing more often than a number 2 (on a good day). Makes sense, if the larger button has more water symbols because you’re meant to push it when you put your own water into it.
Okay, I think I’ve solved this puzzle.
Let’s confirm with Google.
god damn it.
Back to Square One
If this is to believed, then I’ve got it all wrong. But why should I have to do research before I can flush my business away? I need to do homework, before I can operate the toilet? My cat goes in his box and does his thing and covers it, job done. A dog is even less fussy than that, squatting or lifting a leg wherever he may roam. Humans can’t live simple lives with levers on their toilets anymore, we have to solve a riddle first.
I don’t even understand the logic behind these inscrutable signifiers. The bigger button is for more water in a flush? That makes some sense to me. Okay, I’m beginning to get it. Let’s continue browsing the toilets.
Forget it.
During the research I did on my phone as I stood in front of the disgusting business I completed, I learned that the toilet button is meant to, of all things, save water. The puzzle is not intended to entertain a bored brain made soft by AI overviews, entertain a quiet mind longing for noise, or engender some sense of accomplishment in an empty life desperate for validation. It’s for sustainability. By using less water to flush our leavings, we can each save a little bit of water, a financial and environmental bargain. The quest is not for a sense of deductive accomplishment but for the materiel benefit of preserving our environment. This admirable cause is something I can get behind.
Surely there is no additional puzzle or complication I might encounter when using a toilet. I have found the apex of the Toilet Riddles, the toilet button, and with the benefit of the internet I have deciphered the runes and translated the shapes on this device, and I can-
Nevermind.
I have to add this caveat because I am forever haunted by this story