Magic Hand

The men’s restroom nearest to special collections in Poznan’s university library is located in a second floor hallway just outside the stairwell. It’s modest, with a single sink and a second door that opens to the lone toilet. Instead of paper towels next to the sink, there hangs from the wall what appears to be a very small electric hand-dryer. It’s about the size of a standard soap dispenser, and has a short cord leading to the nearby socket where it’s plugged into the wall. The machine has a name, or at the very least a title: Magic Hand.

I can only assume the person who thought up this strange title has an incredibly keen sense of irony. Because as far as I can tell, the only thing “magic” about this curious contraption is how long a person can stand in front of it without his hands getting the least bit drier.

On my first visit I was a bit surprised that the machine was actually that small. But when I noticed its proud, if mysterious, title, I asked myself how long it would take to dry my hands. Though convinced it wouldn’t be long at all, I was sorely mistaken. Usually after two full minutes, I leave the restroom, frustrated, hands still completely wet, sometimes testing out under my breath some of the new colorful Polish vocabulary items I learn on the football pitch.

The only thing the Magic Hand has in common with a functional hand-dryer is the noise it makes. Even that is not much more than a gentle hum, easily quieter than the fan that runs inside my laptop. And I have yet to be convinced that any air comes out at all. What I am slowly becoming convinced of, though, is that there’s a small camera in this little white machine. No doubt there’s a back room somewhere in that large building, where a couple of security guards or janitors are rolling in laughter as they watch the silly American and his gullibility in the “magic” machine that dries your hands. "Look - we put two English words on a machine and the American believes whatever it says!" I have to admit – if I were in that room watching me, I’d be laughing pretty hard as well. I bet it’s not just the security guards either. The librarians, the lady in the cloakroom, the porter, the director of special collections – they’re surely all in on it. No wonder it takes so long when the librarian “goes to check on a book.” She’s looking to see if the Magic Hand has claimed a new victim. Perhaps it’s a even a webcam, so that people around the world can join in the laughter. Now that would be magical.

Meanwhile, standing in front of the dull buzzing sound coming from that small white box, holding your hands up awkwardly, trying not to let the water drip down into your sleeves, it’s easy to lose sight of the potential humor. Perhaps I just don’t believe strongly enough in the power of the Magic Hand. That’s true, I don’t – at all. Perhaps that requires a small-appliance faith that moves proverbial mountains. Personally, I’d be more than content with a faith that simply dries my hands. Or a single paper towel.