Listening to people farting is awkward. Sitting outside a toilet cubicle for the last four hours, I’ve decided that it’s out-awkwarded only by listening to people shitting. But then again, everything about this situation I've put myself in is utterly uncomfortable.

Tonight, I am the master of two urinals, two cubicles, and three basins, overseeing toilet duties in the men’s at one of Hong Kong’s most exclusive and glamorous nightclubs. As far as bathrooms go, it’s not so bad – modern and sleek, warm with candles, and fragrant, with a subtle lavender mixed in with the odour of feces and urine.

Earlier in the evening, in a broken translated conversion, the regular toilet attendant advised me of my duties: to wipe the basin, hand out towels, and clean stuff. Easy, right?

But as the first customer waltzed in, I quickly realised that I had no idea about toilet attending etiquette. As he stood at the urinal, I considered my choices. Should I play the waiting game, sitting invisibly by the basins? Or should I go proactive, perhaps administering a gentle shoulder massage, as I’ve heard is in vogue on the Mainland? Should I be waiting with the towels? Should I talk?

As he zipped up, still undecided, I found myself in no-man’s-land, strangely lurking by the taps – an awkward presence that seemed
to bemuse the urinator. I handed him some crisp paper towels.

“What are you doing?” he asked, with the anxiety of someone who thinks they’re being picked up. This is the kind of vibe I seem to give off in men’s toilets.

“I’m the toilet attendant. Tip?” None was forthcoming.

Not every moment as a toilet attendant is filled with such flirtatious repartee. Wiping sinks and putting your head down toilets gets surprisingly tiresome. And on this relatively quiet Wednesday evening, the bathroom was often deadly silent – just me, the regular gushing of the auto-flush and the occasional bellowing flatulence.

There was none of the sexy mayhem I’d expected: the riotous sambuca-inducted vomiting, the lascivious couples looking for a spot of cubicled-privacy, or even the common urinal banter of, ‘So, how are the chicks tonight?’

All that kept me going was the potential for a tip. So each time the door swung open to my ablutionary domain, as the quiet drizzle of each urinal-occupier would cease, and as a flush emanated from a cubicle, I would think to myself, “It’s show time.”

I’d take up my customary skulking position and administer paper towels, every time more confidently than the last. Reactions varied. Some would arrogantly snatch without acknowledgment, which made me feel dirty and used in a one-night-stand kind of way. Some would nod. Some would even give their thanks. None, however, tipped.

Perhaps that would change if people knew how much shit toilet attendants put up with. It is, from this experience, quite a lot.

Mark Tjhung