Audio By Carbonatix
Dale Spitler folds his arms across a fitted gold vest that’s complimented by a matching bowtie. Then the tall, stern-looking man with close-cropped blond hair leads me through a silicone valley of leggy girls with thongs stretched deep into their ass cracks.
We end up in his workplace of the past 11 years: a sparkling black restroom with two urinals shaped like the Rolling Stones’ lip logo and a setup that includes a variety of mints, pricey colognes, and fat Romeo y Julieta cigars.
Then he describes his most lucrative night in the trade. A regular of the Alley Cat forked over a $100 tip after washing his hands and swigging some mouthwash. Then he took a cigarette and walked out. He returned later and dropped another c-note. By night’s end, the same guy had used the restroom eight times and tipped Dale $800.
“It’s all about your demeanor, verbal skills, and customer appreciation,” says the UM alum, who claims to be the best bathroom attendant in all of Miami.
As pink-eyed men filter in and out of this immaculate john, Dale shares some stories. “A guy walked up to the ATM one night and tried to take a leak on it, thinking it was the actual urinal.” He also tells of witnessing a small bathroom-attendant-run coke ring that was busted in 1997 at three bars including the now-defunct Café Iguana in Kendall’s Town & Country Center. “They’d hide the bags of coke inside of paper towels,” he recalls.
So if the bathroom butlers aren’t selling cocaine, what good are they?
“They’re only necessary if you want to buy something like gum,” says Justin, a 32-year-old with braces who’s waiting for the bathroom at Blue. “To tell you the truth, a lot of the time, I purposely don’t wash my hands so I don’t have to tip them.”
Sarah, a young, heavy-set woman, is the person Justin is trying to avoid. She does bible homework while tending to an array of candy and cigarettes that occupies most of a narrow hallway leading to the club’s cans. “I don’t care if they tip me if they’re just using the bathroom,” she says. “But if they take any of my stuff and don’t leave a tip, I’ll let them know about themselves.”
Sarah adds that she inherited her job through her ex, who “stuck her” with it two years ago when he abruptly quit. “A lot of people call me names, like bitch. Actually that’s my nickname around here.”
Next it’s Waxy O’Connor’s Irish Pub, where the clean beige shitter smells faintly of bubblegum. Alaire, a pretty 35-year-old with a neatly trimmed Afro and an elaborate coin necklace, is washing her hands as she rants, “Attendants expect tips for doing nothing. I mean, what do they do? Clean? Not really. They sell stuff and let you use Aquanet, and who uses Aquanet anymore?”
Holly, an attractive 31-year-old whose dark hair lightly sways over a tight pink vintage tee, steps out of a stall. “You want to know my opinion on bathroom attendants? If you give a bartender a dollar a drink, why can’t we give that poor person who works in the bathroom a dollar? I don’t see what the big deal is.”
“Yeah, but a bartender makes you a drink,” says Alaire.
“Well, sometimes that drink is something simple. A bartender deserves a dollar for popping the top off a beer?”
“But a bartender is providing a service,” Alaire snaps. “Attendants just sit there and watch you wash your hands. Then they throw you a paper towel. That’s something you can do yourself … for free.”
“Whatever,” says Holly, turning to reveal a small ring of white residue around her left nostril. “If there’s some poor, old lady working alone at night, then I’m giving her a dollar.”
“Attendants are usually bitchy,” says Alaire, her knuckles pale as she tightly grasps the doorknob.
“Yeah, well, I’d be a bitch too if I were 45 and working in a bathroom,” Holly responds as she pushes past Alaire and into the chic pub.
A few blocks down, a man in front of Indra Lounge signals me over. I cross the street and walk into a beautifully decorated yet deserted Pan-Asian-themed club. The elaborate red-lit Buddha and hookah-inspired décor seem to indicate this place has an attendant.
But it doesn’t. The bathroom is as desolate as the club. Then I notice a bunch of white dust sprinkled on a counter next to a sink. Being a Miamian (and purely for the integrity of this column), I pull out a credit card and a dollar bill and confirm my suspicion.
And although I thoroughly appreciate this gift from the party gods, I can’t help but think this restroom could use a Dale … or a Holly.
