There are times when I feel blessed to be an artist.
My son William and I were in Manhattan for a Yu-Gi-Oh tournament. After it was done I had something I wanted to pick up but the person from whom I was to do the up-picking wasn't going to be around for a few hours, so we had some time to wander around. William put his vote in for Central Park. After he'd climbed some rocks and scared his old man witless we ambled amiably southward with the idea of maybe dropping by Nintendo World at Rockefeller Center, and that was when I had to go to the bathroom.
As I've gotten older I've found that the Call of the Bathroom is more insistent than it used to be. Luckily I know the neighborhood around there pretty well, so I know that there's a public restroom on the second floor of the Hilton on Sixth Avenue. Up we went and William sat in the hall outside while I went in to rest. I found a likely stall and immediately committed the Cardinal Sin of the Bathroom, which is sitting down without checking to see if there's toilet paper first.
There wasn't.
I was the only one in the restroom. I waggled my fingers in the toilet paper dispenser hoping, I guess, to conjure up more than the few wisps on the bare cardboard tube. I thought for a bit, then yelled for my son. No response. I inspected the dispenser again in case a miracle was in the offing. I hollered for William once more, but then this is the kid who doesn't notice my yelling when I'm standing right next to him. Things were beginning to look bleak.
Then I noticed the sketchpad I always carry with me.
The two pages of sketch paper I tore out weren't absorbent and they sure as hell weren't going to flush properly, but they did the job well enough so I could scuttle to the next stall and finish up.
And there I found the toilet paper plentiful. And oh so very soft.
