Photograph by Spike Steffenhagen

“People have asked questions, told us we should shut down, and one man even went as far as to urinate on our floor when told he wasn’t going to be given access to our bathrooms,” says Shelby Heffner at Starbucks.

We don’t have a public restroom,” the lead employee at a discount store tells me.

“Yes, you do.” I shoot back.

“No, we don’t,” she repeats, not looking at me.

It’s December of 2022, I’m doing holiday shopping for work, and her response is lessening my festive feeling in direct proportion to the feeling of increased pressure in my bladder.

Kongphop Petwichai, iStock, Getty Images

“You just let that woman use it, so I know you do.” I’m getting pissed off. Some would say it is better than being pissed on, which I am in danger of doing to myself. I would disagree.

“No, I didn’t,” she says, walking away, a Scrooge on a power trip. To paraphrase Dickens himself: Fuck the surplus population, right?

But just then, the voice of justice speaks:“Yes, you did,” says the self-same woman who was just allowed to use the restroom. She has been watching my exchange with the self-appointed Guardian of the Loo, and her expression registers her disgust at both my mistreatment and the employee’s casual lie. My hope for humanity begins to reignite, but not enough to distract from my discomfort.

“I have diabetes, and I’m going to piss right here,” I say through gritted teeth.

“You should have just said that,” the worker snarls.

“I shouldn’t have to, liar!” I shoot back.

She unlocks the bathroom, never making eye contact. After depressurizing my bladder, I go back for round two, demanding to know why she lied to me.

“You don’t have to be so rude about it,” she complains with a kind of verbal eye roll while busying herself with stocking items. She’s all but ignoring me, and I can’t help but notice the disconnect between her attitude and the ornaments and tinsel all around us.

The woman who was allowed to use the bathroom says the situation is ridiculous, and I laugh, telling her that she looks much cooler than I do, so maybe that had something to do with it. She says the employee’s behavior was unfair, and I agree.

“That’s all right though,” I shout, loud enough for the employee to hear. “I’m a journalist, and now I have a story to write! And it’s going to be in an actual publication, not some social media post!” My defender cheers, and I rack my brain for the name of some pagan deity of piss upon whose name I can swear. Alas, my memory is as empty as my bladder was full, and I have to settle for a random collection of grumpy vowels.

It’s a hallmark of both of my careers (writing and social services) that opportunity often knocks as a direct result of me shooting off at the mouth. I wasn’t on some kind of mission to discover what was going on in the world of discount-store public restrooms — that was obvious. But after my encounter, I wanted to find out how public and store bathroom closures were affecting people, their responses and feelings about not being able to use a restroom — or having to deny access to one. I wanted to know what went into the decision-making process to keep the public away from toilets.

My visit to the discount store took place as Covid restrictions were lifting. Like a levee breaking, it was both heartening and overwhelming to be thrust suddenly back into crowds. When the lockdown mandates had been introduced two years prior, public toilets were among the first things to be shut down. Stores were closed. Eateries were struggling for survival. Conflicting information about how the virus was transmitted ripped through news outlets and social media. In this charged and fraught atmosphere, many proprietors decided it was better to be safe than sorry, and closed their restrooms, pushing responsibility for the decision off on public health orders — or at least, on their interpretations of them.

But by December of 2022, the lockdowns were a distant memory and the end of state-mandated Covid restrictions was in sight. Despite that, “getting back to normal” did not exactly mean “getting back to the way it used to be, as many businesses opted to keep their restrooms closed. Here is my best attempt at a sympathetic account of that decision: hiring people is a daunting task these days; many businesses are working with skeleton crews. Retention of staff can be difficult, and training new hires takes time and money. In the midst of all that, who wants to maintain a public lavatory? Unless you’re running a relief station, the bathroom is ancillary, not your establishment’s primary function. And you neglect your primary function at your peril. Finally, while bathroom maintenance has always been part of the “other duties as assigned or needed” that employees agree to when they sign on, nobody likes to be handed a cart full of cleaning supplies and told to go clean where someone else has excreted or evacuated. Such a person is liable to be less attentive at their other duties — “How much mayo would you like on your sub, sir?” — and may even start to consider other places of employment.

But that wasn’t the sort of explanation I got from the staff at CVS in El Cajon on Jamacha Road, where I get my medications. Instead, they told me I could “thank the homeless population for not having bathrooms available for customers.” I considered doing just that, if only for the comic potential, but there were none to be found near the store. Granted, it was a different scene pre-Covid, when the storefront bordered on a mini encampment, and the hostilities were escalating from people’s refusal to move to a straight out “Fuck you.” But I asked three different staff why the homeless were responsible for the closures, and not one of them mentioned the loitering outside. Rather, they said, it was the vandalism and drug use. Of course, being homeless doesn’t make someone an addict or mentally ill, but it is true that the percentage of homeless who are experiencing these struggles is higher than a person who is not surviving on the streets.

Also in El Cajon: the Starbucks at Main and Magnolia has kept its human waste receptacles closed and has shut down its dining room. Pre-Covid, this was the place where I would take groups of people with developmental disabilities into the community, to start the day with some coffee. Once, we saw a man who I presume was the owner stop just short of breaking down the restroom door to get to someone who was injecting drugs within. We took the store off the schedule after that, but I continued to make it a regular stop for myself on weekends.

During Covid, I found, many locations shut down their dining areas, some going so far as to take the tables and chairs out of the store completely, thus making it impossible to sit down and stay a while. Most brought them back and reopened the rest rooms as restrictions lifted, but this location didn’t — and has no plans to do so. When customers complain, they are directed to “call the city about it.”

Shift supervisor Shelby Hefner explained that direction. “Many businesses in the area have decided to shut down their bathrooms due to the rising issues with drug use and unsafe behavior in the area. The idea is that if the city puts more effort toward solving this crisis, our bathrooms may be able to open again.” She granted that the closing of the dining area made the coffeehouse more of grab-and-go, as opposed to the kick-back hangout it once was. “Because our seating is gone, people aren’t able to hang out or have meetings at our location. The vibe of the store has definitely changed since I started working here.”

There’s no guesswork about the policy, because signs announcing the closure and giving the reasons for it are placed in prominent areas, including the closed-off passage where the closed baños are. But the signs haven’t prevented protest. As Hefner explained, “People have asked questions, told us we should shut down, and one man even went as far as to urinate on our floor when told he wasn’t going to be given access to our bathrooms. We also get a lot of complaints online.” A quick look at Yelp illustrated Hefner’s point. From claims that this “isn’t a real Starbucks” to gluten adversary Luella M., who writes “…this Starbucks needs a serious remodel or something else. I mean this isn’t Compton, you should let your paying customers use the restroom and put out a chair or two.” People have also taken to using the planter outside as a urinal — in front of other customers, including children, and all a short walk from a police station in “The Gaslamp of East County.”

Andre said that there were porta potties at one park, but someone “effed it up by using drugs in there.” He was concerned about getting stuck with a syringe someone left behind.

Photograph by Spike Steffenhagen

The closures weren’t the decision of the employees. They came from above. But they are enforced by people who have to deal with the consequences. “Starbucks corporate decided to remove our seating and our bathrooms during Covid, but decided to keep it that way due to safety concerns,” Hefner told me. Well then, I thought, let’s see what corporate has to say about it. Simple enough. They’re a transparent company, always interested in their customers and employees, have ties to the community, etc. They even have an e-mail for press! So I popped on my cool hat that says “Fuckin’ Press” before composing my communication, because I wanted to be professional. I shot out an inquiry stating that I was doing a story on public bathroom closures in San Diego. Within two hours, I was answered by someone named Lauren, asking for a list of questions. I responded with the basics. Why was the decision made? Are there plans to re-open them at this location?  A cricket-y chirping sound followed…for three days. I followed up, asking if they had found time to look at the questions. By the time I turned in this story, Gmail had stopped asking if I wanted to follow up on my last sent message, and even the crickets had stopped chirping. I hope they are well — the crickets, that is. All I can do now is write, “Starbucks Corporate did not reply to requests for comment.”

 Well, fiddlesticks! Stymied, I decided to go to the alleged source of the problem: maybe a homeless person would talk to me. They weren’t hard to find, and many of them were forthcoming: I had casual conversations with people in different areas. The remarkable thing: none of them seemed angry or put upon by the lack of public bathrooms, though it certainly affected them.

A man named Andre agreed to speak with me on the record and was pretty candid. When I asked him how he got here, I was referring to his homeless situation, but what he told me was his physical route. He told me where he gets food, the places and times that food banks are held. I asked him if he had ever been told to leave somewhere because of his appearance, or because he carries the bulk of his belongings with him. He told me only at the La Mesa car show, where, he said, the police told him to leave “because I was making it look ugly.” When I brought up community commodes, he told me he used the ones at the public parks. He said that there were porta potties at one park, but someone “effed it up by using drugs in there.” He was concerned about getting stuck with a syringe someone left behind and asked if I could get a line of portable toilets put in across the street, like they do when the El Cajon car show happens. I told him I was not that influential, and we discussed metal bands for a while. Before we parted, he allowed me to take a picture, and I asked him how he felt about Starbucks having closed their bathrooms. He answered, “I never went in there before; I don’t have the money to buy their coffee.”

That bank of porta potties Andre asked for is not likely to sprout up anytime soon. There were discussions of putting paid toilets downtown, because finding a free one there is next to impossible. Of course, the plan doesn’t address the issue of homelessness, any more than citing a homeless person for loitering does. If anything, it gives the false impression of addressing, it and allows the powers that be to shrug their shoulders because “we tried.” This is the crisis that people speak of, the one that is being pushed onto business owners to manage — because they are the ones in direct contact with the population in general and the homeless population in particular.

Biology dictates that at least some of what goes in must come out. Anyone who has done the pee-pee dance or said a less-than-silent prayer while clenching their ass cheeks after one too many plates of curry understands this. Excrement is the great equalizer. But we’re not all socially equal.

My office is in an industrial area, and occasionally, someone will wander into the parking lot and request to use my bathroom. The answer is always no, and without fail, they become indignant. I get even less receptive to them dropping a few kids off in my pool when they stomp and tell me they are going to shit themselves. While I empathize, I have confidential documents and office equipment in the office that I need to keep secure. I also have no desire to have someone overdose in my bathroom, and even less desire to deal with the ramifications of them “filing their taxes.” Nor do I want to spend time waiting for someone’s constipation to clear up. At another office location, someone left what must have been a record-breaking bowl winder in the breezeway between offices at night when businesses were closed.

I’m not alone in declining to provide a relief station for the world at large, of course. I just can’t help but noticing that there is an increase in requests at places not known for their hospitality.  7-11 is the epitome of “grab your stuff and get out.” Yet during the research for this article, I found that nine out of 10 stores spread around the city reported requests to use their bathroom. (Though I suppose it’s not surprising, given all the grease and caffeine on hand.) Also new: the intensity of the hostility that arises when access is denied.

“I always go in after someone uses it,” says Erick Greenzweig, an attendant at a Shell station. “I check to see if it is still clean, and if the person made a mess. I won’t let them use it again.”

Photograph by Spike Steffenhagen

Employees who wished to remain anonymous told me that on occasion, they have let certain customers access the facilities. Police officers are obviously a safe bet, but after that, employees are forced to rely on their instincts — and their sense of self-preservation. Their cramped offices are situated quite near the toilets, and given the prevalence of robbery at all-night convenience stores, I can see how they might be reluctant to let strangers see where the safe is kept.

It’s not like availability wasn’t a dilemma pre-Covid. Restaurants have always guarded their washrooms like Fort Knox. Sometimes, the drag of stopping people from just walking in and relieving themselves was mitigated by codes or coins that were given at the counter. A person’s having to wait in line to get these “keys” when they need to void their nether regions does not put them in the greatest of moods, which wears on the morale of employees — who, like the folks at Starbucks, are merely following corporate directives. At independently owned restaurants, I often see “out of order” signs on the bathroom doors. But when someone ordering food offers some variant of “Oh man, I really need to pee,” the cashier lets them. The facilities aren’t broken, the system is. The signs are there to sidestep confusing and sometimes contradictory laws dictating restroom availability and the fines that come with non-compliance. For example, a dining room may require a restroom if it exceeds a certain measurable area, and other things best left to an attorney to interpret. They also stop random people from wandering into the shop to use (or misuse) the water closets.

So much for the private sector. What about public institutions that by law have to provide facilities? Libraries are the best example of untrained personnel being put in a potentially dangerous situation, such as when someone uses the bathrooms as a grooming station. Once, I walked in on a man who was manscaping while hopping up and down to get a good view of his below-the-belt handiwork in the mirror. He got surly because I had to walk in front of him and so interrupt his routine. I reflexively laughed at the entitlement, but got out pronto because I realized I was mocking a man who had a lot of confidence with a razor blade. Shortly after, the mirrors were gone, replaced by signage stating that personal grooming wasn’t allowed. At another library, I couldn’t use the facilities because a man was inside charging his cell phone, drying his clothes, and shaving. I informed the librarian, who told the man to leave. Librarians doing double duty as security officers seems fraught, and even the actual security officers can do little but call the police.

Moving on: it’s almost a tradition to pull over on road trips to use gas station facilities. En route to Los Angeles, I know the last place to relieve myself and stretch before gridlock hell. This was once a guaranteed courtesy, but now, the availability in America’s Finest City has become spotty. It depends on the owner, corporate policy, and sometimes just plain luck. Erick Greenzweig is an attendant at a Shell station in San Diego. Talking to him is like hearing the evolution of restroom access pre-, during, and post-Covid. “I always go in after someone uses it,” he tells me. “I check to see if it is still clean, and if the person made a mess. I won’t let them use it again.” He says it’s part of the job, and there are relatively few problems. The station did not lock the bathroom doors during Covid, which resulted in consistently odd post-use inspections. “I don’t know if people thought they could get the virus through their shoes or what,” he laughs. “But I’d walk in there and the entire floor would be covered in paper towels, like people were terrified to contact the surface with their rubber soles.”

Greenzweig trusts his instincts, but sometimes, they fail him. Once, a man who had gotten gas for his car looked nervous when asking for the key to the john. Greenzweig half-jokingly told him not to destroy the bathroom, then walked into a scatological nightmare. “I don’t know if the guy didn’t want to sit on the toilet or if he always hovered above it. Whatever the case, he didn’t hit the bowl and sprayed it everywhere.” Greenzweig was left to clean up the Jackson Pollock-inspired masterpiece in between helping customers, some who needed to use an unusable crapatorium. Now, he admits to a bit of gatekeeping when it comes to access. “Sometimes, it just doesn’t feel right. Other times, it’s obvious someone’s on drugs, with abscesses and things like that, and their eyes looking high. I don’t want to find anyone dead in the bathroom or nodded out.” What about homeless people? “No problem if someone needs to use the bathroom. But if you roll up here with two shopping carts of stuff and park it in front of the door, then I’ll probably tell you to leave.” I ask him if that is judgmental. “Maybe,” he says, pausing to think. “We’ve just had some bad experiences with people trying to move into the bathrooms, and we aren’t equipped to handle those situations and serve our customers.”

Pressure continues to mount on stores, restaurants, and public facilities to address this symptom of the homeless crisis. As with the cashier at CVS, this breeds resentment toward the unhoused population for “ruining” things and takes the onus off those on whom it belongs: the city and government. The laws surrounding public urination and defecation are designed to be enhanceable —in this case, to have added charges requiring stiffer penalties. Chapter five, article six of the San Diego Municipal Code makes it a crime punishable by fines and jail time. But depending on who sees it, there could be an added charge of indecent exposure and resultant registration as a sex offender. Medical conditions provide a possible exception to the law; this is, after all, a basic biological function that is sometimes beyond a body’s control. But doesn’t mental health fall under some form of medical condition?

While terms like “safety” and “staff resources” are bandied about, no one mentions Hepatitis A, which is on the rise. Found in stool and blood, the virus can live for months on surfaces and is contagious in microscopic amounts, transferable through sharing food or drink. We went through an outbreak in 2016-2018, and it doesn’t appear we learned much. The culprit then was a lack of public facilities and a lack of hygiene. What happens when these facilities become less accessible is clear: shit on the sidewalk and piss on the lawns, the former being a potential disease carrier. There have been 28 reported cases in the past six months, with 18 of those being homeless people.

As I do a read-through of this article, I realize the story is bigger than me. I acknowledge that I myself have made judgment calls to not allow people to access my restroom. Maybe the woman who denied me access at the discount store was just doing her job, playing the odds. Perhaps I should apologize and make amends to her, tell her I now understand where she was coming from when she lied to me, apologize for yelling in her store when she was just trying to protect it.

Nah.