Showdown with the Toothbrush Freak
September 1, 2003
by Michael Walls

Every office has their office oddity. At our office we have someone we fondly call the “Toothbrush Freak.” I’m not even sure he works in our office, as he only appears in the communal bathroom that is shared by two other companies. But his nickname is appropriate as he is generally spotted brushing his teeth for longer then is socially acceptable in an environment that is sacredly reserved for private moments of bladder and intestinal relief.

Stories of “staring” and “uncomfortable stretches of silence” have run through the male population of our office, prompting many men to “come back later” when spotting the Toothbrush Freak perched at the sink, slowing massaging his gums with a medium-bristled toothbrush.

My first experience with the Freak, was prior to the rumors and email discussions about him. I was completely unaware of his existence and thus ignorant to the dangers of the mens room.

I suspected that something was amiss as I entered the bathroom. A medium-sized bathroom, sporting three stalls, three urinals (albeit, one urinal lowered to the floor for young boys or height-challenged men), three sinks across a wide vanity, and a vanity-to-ceiling mirror giving hand-washers a clear view of the urinals.

As I passed the sinks on my way to the urinals, I saw a gentleman brushing his teeth at the middle sink. I gave a courteous and acknowledging nod towards the man and continued onto the furthest urinal. In that brief glance and nod, I gained a strange sense of the man brushing his teeth. Medium height, skinny build, with a goatee and moustache giving him a creepy Tom Green (MTV/Tom Green show) look. When I passed him and nodded, he stopped brushing and remained perfectly still, holding the toothbrush in his open mouth, almost as if I caught him doing something bad and hoped I wouldn’t see him if he didn’t move. He looked at me in the reflection of the mirror, but didn’t return my nod.

Once at the urinal, I tried to ignore the shivers running up my spine and tried to focus on the task at hand. It was then I noticed the deafening silence. I focused on a particular tile on the wall in front of me and tried to recognize patterns in its texture – trying to ignore the silence. After several agonizing seconds, I began to wonder what was more strange – standing at a urinal and not peeing, or standing at a sink with a toothbrush in your mouth not brushing. I turned my head sideways to glance behind me and he must have realized the hovering silence, because he began to brush. Slowly and rhythmically. There was no water running, no rush to brush away the plaque or lunch particles lodged in his teeth, no spitting or rinsing. Just a steady, dry, nylon bristles against porcelain bonding, brushing sound.

After a solid minute, I gave up, zipped up and flushed.

As most men know, eye contact with strangers in a public bathroom is taboo. So when I turned to walk towards the sink, I avoided eye contact with the Toothbrush Freak. But as I moved to an open sink, I could tell he was looking at me in the mirror. Unable to resist, I briefly looked up – and made eye contact. I looked away immediately, but the damage was done and my eyes burned for a moment. I quickly washed my hands under a lurking stare and practically tripped trying to exit the bathroom.

Once in my office, I located a few fellow male co-workers and related the incident. This is when I was first informed of his officially recognized existence and given nickname.

Weeks had gone by and there were no reported incidents or spottings of the Toothbrush Freak. Then one day, another uninformed male co-worked returned from the bathroom, visibly unsettled. Apparently, as he was walking out of the bathroom, a man with a toothbrush in his mouth was standing outside the door. Almost waiting for him. Predatory-like.

Something had to be done.

I decided it was time for a showdown with the Toothbrush Freak. I quickly grabbed a copy of the New York Times (checking to make sure the sports section hadn’t been stolen) and headed to the mens room.

I boldly entered the bathroom and paused briefly in the middle of the room, staring at the front page of the Times, to give the appearance of nonchalance, while taking in my surroundings peripherally. And there he was. Frozen at the sink – toothbrush lodged in his mouth, looking at me in the mirror. He was almost defiant in his silent stare. How dare someone interrupt my brushing!

I strolled over to a stall and noisily opened and closed the door behind me. I gave the toilet a courtesy flush and spun the toilet paper a few times for effect. After a couple of exaggerated nose blowings, I took a seat, opened up my paper to the sports section and set up shop.

The bathroom got very quiet, which didn’t bother me because I was safely hidden from view in the sanctuary of my stall. After a solid 30 seconds, toothbrush boy started brushing again. Again, slowly and rhythmically – the only sound in the room. Every few minutes, he would stop and listen – never turning on the water or rinsing his brush – then continue brushing. He was testing me. Periodically, I would turn a page of my newspaper, give the TP a spin, but for the most part, I was comfortable in my showdown position and was prepared for the long haul. I even got involved in a few articles to a point of forgetting why I was there.

Twice, another guy would enter the room and attempt to use a urinal. But both times, toothbrush boy would chase them out with his creepy silence and back-of-the-head stare. One of the guys, while washing up, attempted to make light of the situation by talking to him. “Really brushing those teeth, huh?”

Toothbrush boy paused for a second, and without removing his brush said, “Gotta keep ‘em clean…”

The guy left without another word.

Things finally started to come to a head. I had been in my stall for a solid fifteen minutes (a lifetime by public bathroom standards) and Toothbrush Freak had been here at least five minutes before me. (No one brushes their teeth for 20 minutes!) But now he was starting to get restless. He finally stopped brushing and turned on the water. A slight trickle of water could be heard, barely enough of a flow to fill your hand to rinse with.

He shut off the water and I expected to hear a couple of paper towels pulled off the dispenser, but there were none. It was deathly quiet. Maybe he was inspecting his teeth. Maybe he was checking a blemish. Maybe he was sharpening his toothbrush to use as a shank.

Another 30 seconds went by and toothbrush boy hadn’t moved. Finally I heard his feet shuffling. I watched as his feet shuffled past my stall, moving towards the urinals. He stopped for a moment, almost as if he was unsure which urinal to use. (I pegged him as a middle urinal user.)

A few more shuffled feet and then the distinct sound of a zipper unzipped.

I was holding my breath – trying not to make a sound. I thought I could hear the second hand on my watch as the seconds ticked away.

And then he tipped his hand – a momentary trickle of pee hitting the water in the urinal, followed by instant silence as the noise of his own urinating scared him dry.

He had to piss! But his own psycho mind games had turned on him – giving him a taste of his own medicine.

He gave it another few seconds – then, as many of his own victims before him – gave up and zipped up. The shuffling of his feet had more urgency as he made a beeline for the door – forgoing the sink and hand-washing protocol. So much for being a clean freak!

As soon as the door clicked shut, I emerging from my protective stall – leaving the newspaper behind for the next guy. I washed up and smiled at my reflection. I had won! I had defeated the Toothbrush Freak!

(Michael Walls is a volunteer staff writer for 2 Walls Webzine)