Hotel meets Human rights

I was attending a conference in a huge hotel complex, consisting of 14 hexagonal wings connected by corridors at 35 degree angles; in aerial view it resembled a geometrical warren, like a distended beehive.

One morning, on my way to a seminar, I tried to use the bathroom.  A large hispanic woman wearing a medical mask blocked my way.  I backed out, confused, and went down the hall to the atrium of my wing, where the restrooms for men and women were side by side, each containing four stalls. 

Eight lines about six people deep waited for the bathroom, like outdoor concert goers queueing for the porta-potties.  Both the mens and womens' entrances were blocked by unsmiling workers, in hazard suits and disposable masks.  I was feeling rather desperate at this point and decided to just return to my room and use the toilet there. 

I passed the far end of the mob and a line that had only a single occupant.  Velvet movie  ropes demarcated the VIP line, and the silver haired woman with a clipboard manning it smiled at me.  "Hilary," she motioned me over, "you're faculty; you can get in this line."

I smiled back, pleased to be recognized, but it felt awkward to have some privelege the mob lacked.  "What's going on?" I asked. 

Earlier that morning there had been apparently some confrontation between the local army and a guerrilla leader in the Dominican Republic, and this man, widely considered a hero by residents, and a notorious criminal by the US government, had been shot and killed while trying to set explosives at an undisclosed location.

I puzzled over the news, trying to make the connection to the toilet stand-in.  I could see mourning an important figure, or staging a protest to achieve one of his aims but the goal of this action was unclear.  Was it simply to raise awareness?  Had he been setting explosives on a latrine?

The women barring the ladies room chatted and shifted but the men stood shoulder to shoulder, arms crossed in the doorway to the mens' restroom, so still and silent, even their facial muscles didn't move.  They exuded a kind of cold outrage and determination; it was impossible to be unmoved.

I turned to go and a little boy broke rank and ran after me.  He tapped my hand and whispered,"take me with you?"  We turned the corner, out of sight of the mob and the bathroom protestors. 

"Hi," I said, "Who are you?"

"I'm Gomez," he said, "and I'm eight.  I can tell you what happened, and why my family and everyone is standing in the toilet."

I realized this could be the start of a great story.  I nodded, taking the hand he offered.  "I have to make a quick stop in my hotel to get my tape recorder," I said.  The truth was it was already in my pocket; but I still needed to use the restroom very urgently.

At my hotel room I made a big deal of propping open the door so it wouldn't be inappropriate to have a little boy in my room without his parents' knowledge or consent.  I had a small worry that one of the maids might be standing in my hotel room toilet but I had the room to myself.

"I'll be right back," I told the boy.  "Watch TV if you like."

Then I woke.