The Sensor Stall Incident of '23

It began, as all great tragedies do, with mild urgency and misplaced confidence.

I entered Stall #3 at the Maple Street Diner—clean tile, suspiciously fresh air freshener (scent: 'Ocean Breeze… or Regret?'), and a gleaming, handle-less throne. My brain registered the absence of a lever, but my bladder, ever the optimist, said 'Trust the future.'

I did my business. Efficient. Dignified. Then reached—poof—empty space where dignity’s emergency exit should’ve been.

I waved. Not a polite wave—no, this was ‘I am summoning Poseidon’ energy.

Nothing.

I tried the ‘Please, sir, may I have some water?’ hand gesture. Still silent.

Then came the jazz hands. Full wrist flicks, finger snaps mid-air, one knee lifted like I was auditioning for West Toilet. A man coughed in Stall #2. I heard him whisper, 'Is she doing interpretive plumbing?'

Desperate, I rose onto my toes, craning like a flamingo reviewing blueprints—and bonk. My right elbow made intimate contact with the sensor.

WHOOSH.

A flush so violent it rewrote local hydrodynamics. Water erupted sideways like a tiny, angry geyser. My left sneaker got baptized. A single, perfect droplet landed on my nose.

From Stall #2: slow, deliberate, five-fingered applause. Followed by, 'That wasn’t a flush—that was a *statement.'*

I exited the stall blinking, shoe squelching, soul lightly singed.

Now? I enter every motion-sensor stall like I’m infiltrating Area 51:
- Scan ceiling for sensors (they’re always hiding)
- Perform a ritualistic three-finger hover (no sudden moves)
- Whisper 'I come in peace… and also need to flush'
- And if all else fails? I offer it a sincere compliment: 'You’re very sleek. Very advanced. Also, could you maybe… y’know… help me out here?'

It works 60% of the time. Which, honestly, is better than my dating profile.

Pro tip: If your elbow is wet after a public restroom visit, don’t panic. It’s not shame. It’s legacy.