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There he is again. Same time, same stall, same two brown shoes. They’re old, I would guess at least five years; loafers, with a noticeable scuff on the outside toe of the left one. For months now, it has been this tacit charade – just me and him. The thing that’s odd though, is that he never makes a sound; no breathing, no sniffling, no rustling of newspaper pages. Just two brown shoes always rooted in exactly the same spot, completely devoid of movement; never the slightest tapping or flexing, not even the subtlest tremor of discomfort.

Perhaps he thinks no one will notice him. In an environment where the slightest pin drop reverberates like a Phil Specter recording, maybe his labored reticence gives him the illusion of invisibility. Old Brown Shoes has it wrong though; his over-arching attempt at silence makes him especially noticeable. Indeed, I probably would not have ever thought to look down into the next stall had he only gone about his business in the usual manner, snorting, stomping, toilet paper roll spinning and the like. He can’t be asleep, because no one can sleep in utter silence, or so my wife claims. Therefore, the fact that he’s purposefully avoiding making any sound whatsoever on my account just peaks my curiosity that much more, not that I would normally care, and I shouldn’t – damn him!

He always outlasts me, or anyone else who stops to use the first floor restroom. The other day I did an experiment, and stayed for as long as I could. Brown Shoes didn’t budge, maintaining his absurd tableau for an entire twenty minutes. I must say it’s impressive; I certainly don’t have the stamina for such a feat. Maybe he moonlights as a mime, or on the weekends paints himself in silver and pretends he’s Lady Liberty down in Battery Park for tourist’s change. Maybe he’s a Ninja, or a Shoalin Monk, or a Navy Seal, practicing the cat and mouse game with the enemy in close quarters. But as entirely plausible as these theories are, I’m dismayed because it is many times more likely that he’s some kind of sociopath, ashamed or even guilty that he’s been reduced to using a public restroom, perhaps due to some trauma during potty training. But I haven’t entirely ruled out the notion that he might be practicing some kind of Eastern religion, and this is his meditation. Couldn’t be Buddhism or he’d be making that weird noise with his throat.

What if I ever recognize those shoes outside of their lavatory environs? Obviously he works in this building somewhere. At least I know he’s not Management; he’s not wearing wing tips. Still, I dread the day where I’m in a checkout line somewhere, or on a subway, and I look down to see those unmistakable shoes that have been so dourly woven into my memory. What kind of man do they belong too? When he’s out there in the real world, is he the opposite of his inner-stall persona - outgoing, confident, all back slapping and grab-assing? Or does the face he shows the rest of the world reflect his sad, solitary daily vigil, his face sullen, his shoulders hunched, as he soberly pays for his bagel or blintz. Frankly, I’m afraid of my own reaction at a chance encounter with the silent one. Would I act coy and giggly, as one possessed of an embarrassing secret? Would I be scornful of his debilitating restroom foible, or would I be somewhat timid and taken aback, even pitying?

As much as I both fear and loath his unnatural quiet, part of me wants to help my mute brown-shoed companion. He should know that there’s nothing wrong with being noisy in a public restroom; it’s what we humans do. There’s an unspoken law that’s just like the one that applies to Hooters and Pro Wrestling events: when you enter, you leave your judgments and pretensions at the door, brother. We’re all equals here; perhaps in the one place on earth where all men can unite in singular purpose. From the CEO right down to the anonymous man off the street, no one can claim any superiority here with regard to the stated purpose – or at least if they tried, it’d be pretty disgusting. So be yourself, man, because just like Hooters and the WWF, what happens in here, stays in here. Trust me. Most of us would never remember someone blowing their nose with toilet paper, or that sudden, unplanned burst of flatulence. You can even carry on a whole conversation with your prostate- we’ve got your back. The only exception is not washing your hands. I would remember that, and unfortunately you’d be branded for life in my book. Come to think of it the other one is when germ-o-phobic occupants use a paper towel to grip the door handle and let it drop on the floor behind them as they exit. Hate that one, too. Seems if everyone followed exception one, exception two wouldn’t be necessary, but that’s covered in great detail in Chapter 11, Germs and You: Can’t We All Just Get Along?

Maybe you have a ‘Brown Shoes’ of your own in your local public bano. Maybe it’s even you; perhaps you’re even reading this right now, but you’re hopelessly stuck on this page holding your breath, desperate not to reveal your disposition to the guy in the next stall. Stop, take a deep breath, and turn the page, brother. Let’s cut the crap and make today the day we shed our fears of the public restroom, and just be yourself, disgusting noises and all. Let it all hang out. Grab that silver flusher and heartily embrace your individuality, (or if you don’t have a handle, that little button), and flush, flush, flush those inhibitions right down the drain.

And remember be yourself at all times; you’ll be glad you did!