bathroombrush

A Good Spot

Yesterday I went into the bathroom (I do this every day, but I don’t talk about it every day. Only when something interesting happens.) and I didn’t see Bertrand.  I’d show you a picture of the empty counter, but I didn’t take one.  

Feel free to imagine that here.

The first thing I felt was panic.  Fear that Bertrand was gone.  Then I looked at the hand drier.  

It’d be almost intimidating, if it wasn’t a brush on a hand drier.  Granted, the power of the Xlerator shouldn’t be understated, but it’s not going to do any real damage to you. 

“Look at ‘im!  Terrified that I’d gone out the window, were ya?”

“How’d you get up there?”

“Look at you!  ’Up there’ is actually appropriate this time!  This is considerably higher than the other day when you were all knackered about me moving an inch.”

“Well how did you get there? You’ve never explained that.”

“I don’t have eyes and I can’t feel, so how should I know how I got here?  I’m just here now. It’s a good spot I think.”

“But when you move, do you move you or does someone else move you?”

“S’pose it could be either of ‘em.”

“So you can move.” 

“Not sure about that.  I definitely wanted to be up here, though.  And now I am.”

“Fine.”

And I walked out without washing my hands.  Not because I was mad or because I didn’t want to use the hand drier because Bertrand was on top of it, but because I didn’t use the bathroom.  When you’re leaving in a huff to show some sort of general displeasure, you can’t really stop and pee.  

Bertrand Might Come Up With Some Jokes

I decided it was time I came clean with Bertrand about the blog.  I don’t feel like I’m doing anything wrong by him, but it’s only fair to give him a heads up.  

“Bertrand, I decided to write about you.  In a blog.”

“‘S’it ‘bout me exclusively?  Or do ya write about other things and I’m just a bit of window-dressing who pops in here and again.”

“It’s about you, yeah, exclusively.  I guess I’m in it, too, but it’s about our interactions.  That okay?”

“How much’ve you got so far?”

“Not a ton.  Just a couple posts.”

“How’re you going about portraying me?  You don’t make it seem like I’m loitering in toilets across town, do you?  If they read this shit back in Wales and it gets to any of my mates…”

“Bertrand, easy.  I’m being fair.  It’s clear you’re in the bathroom because someone left you here.”

“Fucking better be.”

He was a little riled up.  This was new to me.

“So.  You’re fine with the blog.”

“Yeah.  S’pose I am.  Maybe I’ll come up with some jokes you can write in it.”

“If you want.  Unless you’ve got other stuff going on.”

I knew he didn’t really have other stuff going on.  

“Oh, fuck yourself.  I’ll put ‘em in stitches if I so choose.”

“All right, then.  Write some jokes, you bristly little shit.”

That was the first time we’d really given each other shit like that.  He’s not a bad little brush, really.  I just don’t think his jokes are going to be all that great.  

A Bit of Wet

So I decided I’m going to be OK with the Bertrand situation.  There’s a brush and it talks and I hear it.  No real sense in getting worked up over it.  If I’d lost my mind then it was already gone.   

Over the next few days I wouldn’t talk to him every time I’d go in, just here and there.  Just because he can talk doesn’t mean he has to talk.  Anyway, the Tuesday next I saw he’d popped around again - up to the ledge behind the sink.  

This was new.  I asked what he was doing up there.  

“What’re you doing up there?”

“Whaddya mean up there?”

“You’re usually on the counter.  Now you’re on the ledge behind it, along the wall.”

“It’s two inches higher.  That dunn’t hardly justify calling it ‘up there.’”

It was a good point.  

“Anyway, I’m ‘up here’ because of what’s ‘down there.’  Come have a look.”

“It’s a bit of wet, inn’nt it?  Not what I’m looking for.  Like to keep me bristles dry when I can.”

“Why’s that?”

“Not for me to decide.  If you’re gonna brush your hair, you might not want wet bristles.  Dunno what kinda product you’re using.  Pomade?  LA Looks?  How’s that bit of wet gonna work with what’s already in there.  Not my call.  You want me wet, bang me under the faucet and I’m wet.” 

It was a good point. 

Holding It

When I got back to my desk I noticed a couple of things; I was sweating, and I had to pee again.  The latter may seem odd to some other, poorly-hydrated people, but it’s happened to me before.  You should drink a lot of water.  Nobody wants kidney stones.  But anyway.  I had to pee again.

I figured the sweating I could handle by just sitting there, since it’s just sweat.  So I tried that for a spell.  It worked fine enough, but fuck all if I didn’t feel like my bladder was going to burst after twenty minutes. 

So I went back.  

I didn’t really go in with a formal plan.  I mean, I was going to piss in the urinal, but I hadn’t come up with a Bertrand-specific plan.  I punched in the code and tried to walk right past him, but I stopped.  Because he moved.

“Hello?  Is it you again? I didn’t catch your name!”

I didn’t say anything.  I didn’t know why he was under the soap dispenser but I did know I had things to accomplish here.  Around the barrier and to the urinal.  He kept talking.

“I just moved a couple minutes ago, y’know.  I think someone used me, but I can’t be sure.  I don’t feel.

I know it’s you again.  I can tell by your shoes.  What’s your name?”

So I answered.  Because I had to piss but I couldn’t and I needed progress.  

“Steve.” 

“Steve!  Excellent!  As I said before, I’m Bertrand.  How’s it going?”

“Fine.  I’m fine.  Just here to pee.”

“Dudn’t sound much like that.  Give it a flush to get it going.”

I did and it did.  Around the barrier to the sink, and there he was under the soap.  With questions.

“What kind of shoes are you wearing?”

“Uh, loafers.  Slip ons.”

“Huh. Not sure I grasp the concept of shoes yet.  Not sure of much, actually.  Just that I’m spending my time in this room, and it seems all right.”

“Well.  That’s good.  That you like it all right here.  Gonna dry my hands off now.”

Bertrand kept talking, but I couldn’t hear.  We’ve got the X-Celerator hand driers in my building.  Powerful and loud.  I still didn’t understand what was going on here, but I didn’t want to be rude.

“Bertrand - didn’t catch that.”

“What?  Oh, I was just moaning a bit about how loud the drier is.  Good chat.  See ya ‘round.”

“Yeah, see ya.” 

Back to my desk.  For some reason, I felt fine. 

Bertrand Goes to Work

I don’t remember Bertrand’s first day.  Neither does he, actually.  I know I walked into the bathroom one day a few months ago, and there he was.

It seemed like a strange brush.  All squashed into the corner over there like a scared rabbit.  And rightfully so, I thought.  The man who leaves a brush in a communal bathroom doesn’t think much of himself, so it’s fairly easy to make the leap that he doesn’t care much for his things.  But I’m judging the man, not his brush.  The brush, while a bit filthy with some hairs caught in the bristles, looked like a solid brush.  It’ll move your hair from here to there.  Bristle spacing was fine.  As I walked past it to the urinal, I thought it’d be a nice brush to use if I’d bought it instead of some layabout.  

So of course I was startled when I heard him speak.  Him being the brush in the corner.

“Hello.”  He said.  

When you hear someone speak to you in what you thought was an empty bathroom, your first thought is you didn’t survey things properly.  Maybe there’s someone squatted with their shoes on the rim.  More feasible than the brush talking.  

So I said “Hello.” back, to the room in general and no one in particular.  Mid-piss, mind you.  

“I’m Bertand, and I’m not sure how I got here.”  

That threw me off for a couple reasons.  The first was the accent.  When you hear just a single word like “hello” you can miss an accent, but when you get a full sentence you’re going to pick up on it.  His was British.  Second thing was the statement itself.  I go from pissing and little else to dealing with a lost Brit.  At that point I decided it was best to finish up and assess.  

I came around the corner expecting to see a human British man.  Reasonably.  So when I heard “Hi!  Over here!” I looked in places a human would be.  The floor.  Opened up the empty stalls.  Nothing.   “No, on the counter!”  

Now, when Bertrand talks, nothing moves.  Sound is caused by vibrations or something or other, so I don’t know how the logistics really work out on this.  But we’re dealing with a talking brush to begin with, so disbelief should be suspended.  Anyway, I look on the counter and see a brush, not moving, but talking.  When that happens, you don’t believe what’s happening.  I feel confident in that.  A sane person thinks “This cannot be happening, I should see a doctor, because it sounds like a little brush is talking to me.”

“Oh great, you can hear me.  I dunno how I got here.  Who are you?”  

So I walked out of the bathroom without washing my hands.  Because I’m a sane person and that’s how you should react.  

This is Bertrand

He’s the brush that lives in the bathroom on the floor of my office building.  He’s not entirely sure who he belongs to (as he’s lacking eyes) but he pops around quite a bit.  He’s got some excellent stories, and he’s been kind enough to let me share them with you.

We hope you all enjoy.