Before we leave I remember that Whitney also told me the bathrooms at the Boom Boom Room are a sight to be seen. She claims she spent thirty minutes in there the first time just laughing and laughing. I asked her if she was on mushrooms, because that seems like the only time that laughing in a bathroom for thirty minutes would be appropriate and/or feasible. She says that she was not.
I finish all but the last sip of my $37.75 glass of liquid money. I hand the remainder to Eileen. “Drink,” I say. She complements the wine and tells me at least I didn’t pay for a shitty glass of wine. Indeed, it is quite good. I’ve had much worse for much less. As a result of my dedication to said investment, I am drunk.
We walk out past the coat check and I head down a black hallway with mirrors reflecting only more black. This is apparently the way to the restrooms but I am way confused. This hotel was jacked even before I imbibed and I have only made things exponentially worse for myself. Just when I think all is lost and I have inadvertently made my way down a road to nowhere, a male bathroom attendant pops into frame literally out of nowhere.
“Just a minute, miss.”
He disappears again and I’m still walking towards confusing mirrors that are angled out into triangular shapes so that they don’t reflect me just more black. The effect is terrifyingly similar to a haunted house or a hall of mirrors in some Romanian funhouse. A really expensive Romanian funhouse.
The attendant appears again, scaring the hell out of me. This would be a really good location for a horror film staring Paris Hilton.
“Here you are.”
He opens the door to my own private loo. Why, thank you. I close the door behind me, trapping myself in what is the most awesome airplane-sized restroom in the universe. There is my own sink, my own toilet (of course), and a floor to ceiling window looking out over New York.
I sit down on the black toilet seat that reminds me of the black toilet seats from my elementary school – only substantially nicer. That and from what I can tell this bathroom does not have that grainy, powdery, pink soap that scratches your hands as it cleanses.
It is not until this moment that I understand what Whitney meant when she said it felt like she was peeing on New York. For a second, I wonder if this is a two-way mirror or a one-way mirror or if this is part of some elaborate time-lapsed art project that involves video taping the building at night and documenting fabulous people in the act of using a restroom and adhering to the laws of biology and anatomy, because, at the end of the day, we’re all just people. But as I continue to look out onto city with its lit up boxes of windows I don’t care anymore. This is fucking beautiful. I don’t care if anyone can see me.
I get up, flush the toilet, and wash my hands. I take a look in the mirror to determine where I fall in the spectrum between buzzed and sloppy drunk. Judging that I still look presentable and my eyes aren’t drooping, it’s just a buzz. I walk out the door, say goodbye to the bathroom attendant, and try to find my way back to the coat check. The whole experience has been very American Psycho. Christian Bale wishes he could have taken a piss in this bathroom.