IN THE CHANGING ROOM

On the Insularity of Identity

One afternoon, I was in the changing room at the local swimming pool when I overheard a conversation in the stall next to mine:

– OK, now Billy is going to put on his swimsuit, said an old woman’s voice.
– NO, GRANDMA FIRST! squeaked a kid.
– Well, all right, first Grandma, then Billy, okay?
– Okay.

There were some shuffling noises, and then:

– GRANDMA, YOUR UNDIES ARE UGLY!
– Hem, no, they’re not ugly, Billy, they’re regular undies. Be nice, now.
– NO, THEY’RE UGLY!
…
– AND THEY STINK!
– Billy, what’s the matter with you! My undies do not stink! I put them on clean this morning, like I always do.
– NO, THEY SMELL LIKE FISHIES!

Struggling not to laugh out loud, I finished changing, hearing nothing further, and afterward I couldn’t resist hanging back in the hallway, eager to sneak a peek at the fearsome Billy and his brave, if presumably shamefaced, grandmother.

I waited a few minutes, pretending to look for something in my knapsack, then the lock clicked, the door pivoted creakily…

Holding a gray towel, wearing a bulky black Speedo, an old man appeared, his chest covered in white hair, his skull shiningly bald. He paused, somewhat startled to see me there, then he lowered his head and set out for the showers, loudly dragging his flip-flopped feet on the blue and white tile. Behind him, the cubicle was bare.