The history of the human race is one defined by gradual growth and a struggle to improve our standard of life, in spite of obstacles thrown in our paths by Mother Nature herself. And though it can be difficult, it is sometimes necessary to accept and adapt to the developments that accompany great scientific and technological revolution. These changes are a natural part of societal life and allow us to participate, on a smaller scale, in the greater and overarching development of our species in the spirit of innovation and modernization. On those grounds, last week I found myself wandering the grounds of a nearby department store, having finally resolved to switch to a bidet. 

The store had no notable or memorable name, but it was in a large commercial plaza surrounded by food trucks on all sides, like a happy kingdom besieged by supplies and reinforcements. Inside was a maze of open stalls separated by walls made of thin wooden boards. Some were painted and decorated with shelves and small trinkets and things, while others suffered the unfortunate fate of having owners who thought it would be unfashionable to bear any sort of color other than a dull grey. The fronts of the stalls were completely open, such that potential customers could walk in freely; however, there were a select few larger stalls, and even fewer unoccupied spaces waiting to be leased, with full glass fronts. A significant portion of the rest of the store was made up of a supermarket, which stocked various foods imported from all over Asia. Of these I took four cans of roast eel and, out of sheer curiosity, one of fried tofu, the canned form of which I had never tried before.

I feel I should add, having already opened and eaten the tofu prior to the time of writing, that this canned tofu is possibly the most grotesque thing I have ever put in my mouth. It is almost fascinating how it had ended up so far removed from being edible, given how difficult it is to make fried tofu anything but pleasant. This reminds me of one occasion last year when my house-mates had decided that the best use of their time was to play tricks on me, and the oldest of the three of them came up with an idea to add something unpalatable to my drinking-cup, for they knew I always kept a full cup of water on my bedside table so that I would have something to wet my throat with when I awoke. 

At the time, we were living in San Diego, a city on the American west coast, and no matter where we were in the city the beach was no more than twenty-minutes away by car. So the oldest of the three, who originally came up with the plan, took a quick trip to the beach and picked up the smallest rock he could find (such that I would not easily notice it), and covered it in as much dirt, sand and seagull excrement he could find. When he was satisfied he passed the rock to the youngest of the three, who studied chemistry at the local university. He took the rock to his laboratory, where he further layered on the most pungent and distasteful chemicals and compounds known to man, before returning to our apartment with the rock tightly sealed inside a bag, lest it be exposed to all the innocent passers-by on the way back. The third was assigned the important task of sneaking into my room and ensuring the package reached its intended destination, while I was still asleep. Despite my being a rather light sleeper, he managed to deliver the thing to its intended destination, and even went the extra length of stirring it around in my cup with a small spoon after dropping it in. 

An hour later I woke up from my bed, yawning and unwittingly grasping around for something to drink. The windows in our apartment were small and few, so my room remained rather dark despite the late morning rays leaking in from outside, which made it very difficult to tell clear, filtered water from the murky concoction my roommates had prepared for my enjoyment. Without much thought I found my drinking-cup and poured its contents into my throat. My tongue was met with a poison or something similarly grotesque of almost biblical proportions; I became certain soon afterward that a cruel and unforgiving Lord must have first created this elixir during Old Testament times to punish evil men, but had forgotten about it and left it at my bedside table. And even after spending the entire afternoon expelling the contents of my stomach, my tongue refused to let me forget this offense for the next week. But in spite of all this, believe me when I tell you I would drink that horrid mixture a thousand times before allowing myself to give that canned tofu a second try. 

The bidet shop was in one of the larger stalls, and was lined on one side with several model toilets, such that I privately named it the “Toilet Stall.” Half the toilets were differently shaped; I assume this was because several of the bidets came with a toilet seat, and this would help any potential customers ensure that the bidet would fit the toilet they had at home. Behind the line of toilets, the back wall was beautifully decorated with a painting of the ocean, which I wasn’t sure if was meant to be a roundabout reference to the primary function of the stall’s wares. 

On one end of the stall was a rectangular office desk set before two velvet chairs; presumably this was where the stall manager would do her paper work. The saleswoman was an older Chinese lady named Wendy. Her greying hairs were dyed a dark reddish-brown, but given how few she had left, her undyed roots were plainly visible. She wore a white dress shirt with a blue tuxedo vest, but instead of dress pants she wore jeans. Wendy described the things around her in the most peculiar way, and followed every thought with “y-yes, yes yes, yes yeah.” Otherwise, I would have easily described her as a woman of few words. 

As I entered the toilet stall, she was the first to greet me: “Hello there, y-yes, yes yes, yes yeah. What can I do for you? Y-yes, yes yes, yes yeah.” 

I replied with a good afternoon ma’am, “I wanted to switch to a bidet, but there weren’t any good ones I could find on Amazon. Do you have any recommendations?”

Wendy rubbed her hands together and smiled a small thin smile, in the sly way salesmen and hucksters do when they see a promising customer, and beckoned me over to the line of toilets along the decorated wall.

“Looking for a tushy sprinkler, hmm? I have those a-plenty, y-yes, yes yes, yes yeah. You need look no further than Wendy’s Watershow Workshop – n-no, no no, no no you don’t.”

I have a clear memory of being particularly unnerved by this Wendy character. Even exchanging polite nods or words of acknowledgement (“Yes, ma’am, thank you” or “No need, I’m just browsing”) irritated my innards and agitated my bowels. There was something very wrong in her demeanor and the way she went about her business, though I couldn’t quite determine what it was. Talking with her was a great displeasure, and though I wanted badly for her to leave me be, she wouldn’t; and I was far too polite to ask her otherwise. 

“Y-yes, yes yes, yes yeah.” (Sometimes, this would slip out of her even if she had nothing else better to say). 

“Hey, what’s the deal with this one?” I pointed to a toilet in the middle of her array, whose bidet was surrounded by a thin flat surface which extended below the toilet seat and down the sides, and on which was attached to two large stereo speakers on either side. 

“That one plays music. That’s why it has those speakers there. Y-yes, yes yes, yes yeah.”

“Why in the world would I want music in there for?”

“Why wouldn’t you? 

“I just don’t think the situation really calls for it, you know? It’s not like anything I’m doing in the washroom needs to be set to a tune – or, God forbid, broadcasted to everyone else in the house!”

“Well, I find there’s hardly anything music doesn’t make at least a little better. Maybe it’s time you give it a try – the next time you go about your business, why don’t you bring a speaker in with you, and then come back to tell me how you like it? M-mhm, mm-hmm, humph.”

“Oh, I’ve tried – I hardly have any choice but to play a little tune in the restroom. I already got my own instrument tooting and shooting down there, and my worry now is that if I bring more instruments into the mix, speakers and all; the first one isn’t going to play on beat with the others.”

Wendy stared at me, clearly at a loss for words. I tried my best to look confused or a little sheepish for having said something inappropriate, but inside I was mighty pleased I had finally gotten her to shut the hell up. But soon she was yabbering away at me again, and my brief reprieve ended.

I gestured to the next toilet over. The bidet in this one was attached to two long limbs, extending up from beneath the toilet seat up to where I figure the face of the poor fool using the thing would be, bent like an arm in places where it had joints like elbows. 

“Well then, what’s the deal with that one there?”

Wendy’s face lit up like a bulb. 

“That one there’s new – it’s a clever little thing I made myself, y-yes, yes yes, yes yeah.”

“What’s it do?”

Wendy pointed to the ends of each arm. At the end of the right arm there was a small circular socket which seemed to be meant for holding something. The end of the left arm was attached to a long tube, which at one end narrowed down to almost a point, and at the other end was attached to a valve below the toilet. 

“This here on the left is a water flosser. It’s designed so that the same water which runs through the bidet can also be used to floss your teeth. It’s real convenient, y-yes, yes yes, yes yeah.”

“In what world is it better to have my teeth cleaned on the toilet than by the sink?”

“Well, in this one, of course. I figure this way you save some time while you’re getting your other crevices cleaned, too. Besides, this other one on the right is for holding your toothbrush, see? That way it’s all in one place for you, all convenient and everything, y-yes, yes yes, yes yeah.”

Wendy pushed a button on the side of the bidet, and with a fit of clanking and whirring and humming the toothbrush-holder and water-flosser began moving in small circles, roughly tracing the outline of an imaginary person’s teeth. 

“It even moves on its own for you, see? With this clever little thing you can get water in both ends at once, without even needing to move a muscle – y-yes, yes yes, yes yeah.”

Reluctantly I admitted that it was indeed a clever idea, though mostly to get Wendy to move on to something else. The next bidet down the line was largely similar to the one before, except that the arms extended forwards, and on each end had five small digits, not unlike the shape of the human hand.

I chuckled at the sight. 

“What’s this one do, type?”

Wendy did not reflect my amusement. She looked me straight in the eyes, the faintest signs of a frown tugging at the sides of her mouth. 

“Yes. We made it because we had noticed people are spending a longer and longer time on the toilet with their phones. We figure, why not double down, and take your computer in there with you, too? We even put a little dispenser down there to help apply hemorrhoid creams. It’s real easy to use – just hit it with your right cheek.”

“Well, how does it even know what I want to type?”

“Bluetooth.”

“Oh.” 

Now it was my turn to be at a loss for words, this time because I was seriously considering it. You see, I’m a writer by trade. Oftentimes I’ve been guilty of spending too long on the toilet, having just then come across some idea or another which I found immediately necessary to write down or expand upon. But this isn’t something I can help, really; I’m shackled to the whims of Inspiration, who likes to strike me more often at inopportune times of the day than when I would prefer. And it just so happens that more often than not, when I’m moved by the spirits of artistry and wit, so are my bowels. 

On one occasion I had found myself on the shittoir for nearly an entire day, after having drunk somthing bad from my drinking-cup in the morning. To my dismay, I flushed and flushed but the toilet bowl always filled faster than the water tank did, and so the flushes became weaker and weaker compared to the mass of ordure it was to act on. How come my stomach always fills earlier than I wish it would, but never empties within a reasonable amount of time? God knows I wish it would act the opposite. 

That was the day I got my first hemorrhoid. I couldn’t see it –I didn’t think to bring a hand mirror in with me, and the bathroom mirror was too high for me to inspect my behind in it. But it was round and bumpy, and burned to the touch. I named it Rhodney. You never really forget your first.

Rhodney was a frequent guest, though an unwelcome one. After we became acquainted he would visit every time I spent even a little extended time on the toilet, and sting and burn and bother me to no end. I even asked my proctologist about cutting ties with Rhodney. My proctologist is named Dr. Dangerfield, and he’s about the only person I see eye-to-eye with these days. Dr. Dangerfield told me that he’d seen far worse friends than Rhodney, and that Rhodney should go away on his own if I spend less time on the toilet. I sure would have appreciated some Rhodney cream then, but all I left his office with was advice. 

I stopped my extended restroom breaks, even at the risk of forgetting great bouts of inspiration, and Rhodney began a long leave of absence. But the damage was already done. I grieve the ideas I’d lost, the great stories which I could’ve written. And now in front of me was what seemed like a clear sign from the universe, in the form of Wendy, to get back on the toilet for the sake of my art, whether this invites Rhodney back or not. 

And so despite my initial reservations, I went home that day with a new bidet, which I installed first thing the next morning. Since then Rhodney has been a recurring guest, though I do not mind him as much anymore. I have become accustomed to his presence. I now spend greater and greater lengths of time on the toilet – some days, even more so than on my writing-chair, especially given how convenient it is now to do work on the former. The bidet serves me well. Its fingers type faster than I do – and more accurately, at that – and the Rhodney cream dispenser works most of the time, though sometimes Rhodney hits it himself and becomes irritated and painful beyond belief. But all’s well that ends well; I had plenty of doubts, but now I feel that a writer’s best friend is his bidet, and could not imagine my work without it.

And now that this story has come to a close, the time has come for me to stop typing and get off of the toilet. See you next time, Rhodney.