The Silent Flipper

She had lived with dozens, maybe hundreds, of roommates, but until now each and every one knew how to hang a roll of toilet paper: "over" (not "under").

Then her new roommate broke her perfect record: he hung a roll "under"!

She stared at his violation of propriety, the flat "under" square pressed against the filthy wall. She plucked the tissue out with two fingers and tugged, but instead of ripping, paper erupted. She held a fistful of toilet tissue instead of the dainty two or three squares she'd intended.

Somewhere she'd read that the average American spends thirty minutes a year trying to find the seam in a toilet paper roll. More like an hour, she now believed, if the roll is hung "under".

She said nothing to her roommate about his vulgarity—they were new "mates," after all—but she loathed the way she had to flip the tissue, looking for, sometimes scratching for, the end of the paper.

As time reduced the roll's thickness, she plotted. With any luck, she could be in the bathroom in time to change the paper. And she was! Thanks to her patience, and forethought, the next roll—hers—hung "over". 

However, she couldn't afford to spend hours every week lurking for the end of the roll. She needed a permanent solution.

For starters, she decided to let him have his way, in the hope that she could adjust to him, but his habits were worse than she thought. Not a dyed-in-the-wool "under" roller, no, he didn't care. Up side, down side, sideways, who knew which way he'd hang it.

Once, when he'd hung the paper correctly two times in a row, she thought she'd converted him, so she stuck a pasty-note beside the roll. It read: "A miracle!" But he just dropped the note in the wastebasket, and hung the next roll "under".

Thinking she could reform him, she proffered historical evidence, an illustration of the first roll, patented in 1891, the paper clearly spilling over the top. He shrugged. "If you're into tradition."

When she asked him why he liked the "under" position, he smiled. "You can see for yourself how much neater it is, no loose end flapping in the breeze. Besides," he wiggled an eyebrow, "if you hang it 'under,' it won't unroll during an earthquake."

"An earthquake? This isn't California."

Against all odds, she labored to convert him. "You use less paper when you drop it over the top. And you don't have to reach so far to grab a piece. And there's germs if you hang it 'under,' brushing your knuckles against the grimy wall."

She knew the futility of arguing but, just in case, she pointed out that every decent hotel in the United States rolls over the top.

He snorted. "Hotel toilet paper origami. You going to do that for us? A neat point? A little fan? Whenever I check out?"

So she shut up, certain in her position as one of the normal 70 percent who hangs the paper "over," unlike that wretched minority making life miserable for everyone. Her roommate probably didn't even know how to take a shower, whether to shampoo his hair or lather his body first.

Then one day, quite by accident, she broke their stalemate and had her way—at last. Her roommate had changed the roll, this time, "under". She looked at it, felt her anger rise. Then she grabbed the roll, extracted it, spun it around, and put it back, the freed paper swinging "over." 

She rejoiced. Not a single solution, this. She could apply it anytime she walked into the bathroom and saw the roll in its minority position. Grab, extract, twirl, reposition. As simple as that. 

As for her askew roommate, he'd never even notice that she'd won. Unless she told him. That option tempted her, but she decided never to mention her victory to him. 

In their household, she'd be the silent flipper.

COMING SOON:  The toilet lid, "up" or "down"?