THE WELLNESS POD WILL NOT LET YOU LEAVE
There are no men's or women's rooms here. There are "Restoration Pods," four of them, each a sealed white capsule with a frosted touchscreen door, like something a billionaire would launch into orbit. A soft chime greets you on entry. Recorded birdsong plays from hidden speakers. The lighting shifts from blue to a gentle peach, which a placard informs me is "calibrated to reduce cortisol."
The toilet is Japanese and has more settings than the cockpit of a 747, including one labeled "Oscillate" that I did not have the courage to test. The sink fills itself to the exact depth of a hand. The towels are warm. Everything is immaculate, and everything is deranged.
On the wall, a tablet asks you to rate your "flow state" on a scale of one to ten and invites you to "share a moment of gratitude" with the company's internal network. I declined. The door then declined to open. It informed me, in a soft female voice, that my feedback "helps us build a better tomorrow."
I gave it a four out of ten under duress and the door released me back into the lobby. I want it on the record that this was the first truthful number this company has received in years, and that no restroom should hold a man hostage for data, however good the birdsong.
SCORE: 4 plungers. Clean as an operating room, with the hostage policy to match.