The restroom door said "Gentlemen"

Every Monday evening, three other gents and I wend our way through Bay Area traffic to chorus rehearsal. For me, it's a 162-mile round trip each week; for the two members of our foursome who live in Santa Rosa, the next city to the north, it's about 20 miles more. In decent weather, and barring accidents or other highway mayhem, roughly an hour and a half there, slightly less coming back when the commuters have gone to Lullaby Land. Fortunately, three of us take turns driving the carpool, so it's not so bad.

We do it because we love it, naturally. The local chorus is a fun group of guys, but the music program is at best slightly above average, and at worst mediocre. That's not a criticism as much as it is a recognition that it's a different group of people with different goals than the chorus in which I sing. For all our struggles, we're the best men's chorus in our musical genre for 400 miles in any direction. So it's worth the weekly hassle to make what I facetiously refer to as the Great Trek.

Tonight on the way home, we stopped at a gas station mini-mart around the corner from our rehearsal location to grab dinner. It's always the mini-mart when we're in a hurry to get home, and In-N-Out Burger ("In-N-Out, In-N-Out, that's what a hamburger's all about") when we're not. Before venturing to the deli case to pick over the paltry selection of prewrapped sandwiches, I made a pit stop at the men's room. The little sign on the lock said "Vacant." When I opened the door, there was my reflection in the mirror -- and sure enough, that was the expression on my face...vacant.

Amazing. How did the locksmith know?